Those who had never seen the Desert thought it to be nothing but sand from the foothills of the Veresch to the Sunrise Water. And mostly they were right. But in the north there rose from the dunes tall spires of stone that wind had not eroded away. Some were grouped into massive fortresses, bastions of rust-colored rock where the Father of Storms was said to take his ease of an evening. Some were spindle-thin, and some were jagged as dragon claws, and some had been worn away to the last stubborn shaft of bedrock. They were called Goddess’ Needlebasket and Stony Thorns and Zagroy’s Pillar, where Rohan’s great-grandfather had won a decisive victory over the Merida. And it was there, on the southern side of a tremendous column that could have balanced Feruche on its flat top, that Tallain and Riyan hid their army.
But not quite all of it. Eighty soldiers were about a half measure away, creating a camp that appeared to hold the entirety of the Northern Desert army. Blankets had been cut in half to double the numbers of bedrolls; fires enough to cook for an army were lit. The problem was horses, which could not be spared from the main host. Tallain worried about that, but Riyan only shrugged.
“They’ll see what they expect to see. And that’s what we’re snowing them. Besides, no moons tonight.”
“But they won’t hear what they’ll expect to hear. Horses and their tack make noise.”
“Know any good songs? Failing that, any loud songs?”
Tallain rolled his eyes skyward in mute appeal for pa- tience—and sent two of his Tiglathi over to the false encampment.
Well past midnight, they were still singing.
“Don’t they ever get tired?” Riyan complained in a whisper. Sound carried in the cold, clean winter air— from the camp to Zagroy’s Pillar and from the stone out to the Desert. The Merida and Cunaxans were five measures off, camped just beyond a sand-rippled hill. But with the decoy troops still warbling away, Riyan knew that the sentries suspected scouts were nearby.
Their original scheme—leading the Merida and Cunaxans to Stony Thorns for an ambush—had been discarded. Stony Thorns was on the road to Feruche, where Pol had taken refuge, and Feruche must not become a temptation. So they lured the enemy with the planned argument instead, split up while shouting invectives at the top of their lungs, and met by night behind Zagroy’s Pillar.
Riyan and Tallain were hunched beside a boulder that sheltered them on two sides. But the Storm God sent wind swirling through the spaces between the stones, and both men were shivering.
“They’re the son and daughter of my favorite tavern keeper,” Tallain murmured. “I’ve heard them go on until the sun comes up.”
“Speaking of which, I wish it would. I’m freezing.”
“Somehow, I don’t think there’s much chance of hurrying it,” the other man said dryly.
They listened to a succession of drinking ballads audible even at this distance, the sound sliding around the bulk of the Pillar. Tricks of the wind sometimes carried the songs far away, and sometimes brought them close enough to mask the quiet nearby noises of horses, clinking bridles, and the rare whispers of soldiers.
Riyan spoke again, with more breath than voice. “I hope we posted the sentries out far enough. If the Merida get too close, they might—“
“You said it yourself—they’ll see what they’ll expect to. If it’s one thing you can count on, it’s Merida stupidity.”
“If they’re so stupid, how’d they get to be a guild of assassins?”
Tallain shrugged. “They worked alone. If they did well in packs, they’d have held the Desert. This is where Prince Zagroy smashed them, you know.”
“Question is, do the Merida know it? And if they do, why do they let us lead them here?”
“A chance to make the battle come out right this time.”
“They’re in for a disappointment.” Riyan flexed stiff fingers inside his riding gauntlets. “Why don’t you try to get some sleep? I’ll take the watch, and you can spell me later.”
“Who could sleep with all that racket? Maybe once they shut up.” Tallain chuckled softly. “I’d prefer not to yawn in the face of the enemy. So damaging to one’s dignity.”
Suddenly both men sat up straight as the changing wind brought them another sound: the hoofbeats of several horses at a walk. No one who had not spent a lifetime in the Desert would have taken the noise for anything more than the random shifting of pebbles in the nearby gulch.
“Three?” Riyan whispered.
“I think so.”
Clouds draped most of the stars in thin gray-black silk, but there was enough light to discern three riders on dun-colored horses approaching from the south. Two were dark-headed, but the fair hair of the other drew even the feeble starshine and made of it a silver-gilt beacon.
“Gentle Goddess,” Tallain breathed. “It’s Pol.”
Wincing as a wind-dislodged rock clattered from high up the Pillar, and not daring to descend the short slope and cause more noise, Riyan lifted one hand in greeting. Pol slid from his saddle and handed his reins to one of the other men, who rode quietly to where the other horses were picketed.
Whispers passed amid the soldiers, quick as a wayward breeze and just as soon gone. Pol carefully ascended to where Riyan and Tallain stood, distant singing covering the sound of his footfalls.
“Your grace,” Tallain murmured, bending his head.
Remembering with a jolt that he was looking at the High Prince, Riyan said and did the same. In the dimness, he had the impression that Pol barely held himself from a flinch.
“My lords,” he replied, low-voiced. “To answer the obvious—this morning, from Feruche at a full gallop, with Lord Kazander of the Isulk’im and his kinsman. At nightfall I saw what you’re planning. We avoided their patrols, but even if they saw us, they’ll think us your outriders.”
Tallain was frowning. “There are no moons tonight. How could you have—“
“There are stars.”
Riyan felt his stomach turn over. Tallain could never understand what it meant when a Sunrunner spun the light of the stars. But then, Tallain didn’t know that Pol was also a sorcerer.
They sat beside the sheltering rocks. Pol brought out a small wineskin and took a swallow.
“To Prince Zagroy. I understand you’re about to emulate him.” Handing the skin to Riyan, he conjured the faintest of fingerflames to see by and went on, “Let’s see if I remember it correctly. The other camp breaks at dawn and marches beyond the rise. When the Merida and Cunaxans come looking, you attack from ambush.”
Riyan nodded. “To Prince Zagroy,” he echoed, drank, and passed the wine to Tallain.
“But that’s not how he did it, you know,” Pol said.
Tallain gave a start—and not because the singing had finally stopped. Riyan couldn’t even feel much relief at knowing the danger of observation was judged to be past.
“We’re in roughly the same position he was,” Tallain was saying, “in numbers as well as geography. It’s about the same time of year, too. And he overwhelmed a force twice the size of his own.”
“Desert history belongs to all three of us—but my family’s history belongs to me.” The High Prince stretched his right shoulder under the dark wool of his cloak, as if already feeling his sword in his hand. Rohan’s sword, Riyan thought with a sharp ache in his heart as he recognized the tooling on the hilt and scabbard. He’d seen that sword hanging in the Great Hall at Stronghold since he was five years old.
“Then tell us what happened,” Tallain invited.
“My grandfather’s grandfather believed as much in the power of shadow as he did in the power of light. What he really did here was make use of both.”
*
Prince Birioc—for so he termed himself now, making no pretense about either his leadership of the Cunaxans or his birthright as a Merida—was roused from sound sleep by his uncle.
“It’s the middle of the night!” Birioc grumbled, squinting at the candle glow that cast weird shadows as Urstra moved around the tent. “Why is everyone arming outside? Have Tallain and Riyan attacked?”
“No, vanished,” Urstra informed him tautly, and tossed his trousers at him.
“Impossible. My brother Ezanto came back with the patrols just after midnight and said they were camped near the Pillar, singing their fool heads off. Why did they pack up and leave so early?”
“That’s what needs discovering.” He set his candle on a wooden camp stool and handed Birioc his boots. “There was more noise from them earlier, and when I sent scouts to look, they were gone.”
“Well, they won’t get far.” Birioc yawned behind his hand and scratched his beard. It was still new enough on his face to itch.
“We’ve lagged behind them too far, waiting for reinforcements to arrive. We can’t wait any longer.”
“You’re the one who said to keep well back so our troops could catch up!”
“I was wrong,” Urstra said with a shrug. “Those dragon-spawn have led us along like a virgin taunting a lovesick boy. Put your shirt on, I’ll arm you.”
“So we fight them today?”
“If at all possible. This has gone on long enough.”
“I disagree. The outlying levies can’t be more than a half-day’s march from us now. We can track Tallain and Riyan—“
“Who are in the process of luring us toward Tiglath, where Tallain knows the surrounding land blindfolded! We should never have let him pull us away from Tuath.” He shook his head. “We can’t let him choose where to give battle. So today we shall follow, overtake, and destroy.”
Birioc grunted as he lifted both arms so Urstra could fasten his be jeweled breastplate. “This thing may date back to my great-great-great grandfather’s day, but it’s damned uncomfortable and I feel like an idiot wearing it.”
“Wear it you shall. Our ancestor who wore it last into battle defeated the combined forces of the Desert and Syr.” He paused, running a finger over the polished lumps of uncut dark topaz and emerald that studded the heavy leather. “I would have given it to Beliaev...”
“Who would have lost it when he was killed by Walvis at Tiglath,” Birioc said impatiently. “He was a fool to ally himself with lanthe and Roelstra.”
Urstra lifted a hand menacingly. “And who are your allies? Chiana? Rinhoel? The same get!”
Birioc crushed the fist in his own. “Dare to threaten your prince again, and your bones will rot with Beliaev’s in the sands below Tiglath!”
“It is necessary to take Tiglath first,” the old man snarled. “I see no troops from Meadowlord here to help! And none of your precious Vellant’im!”
“With the Northern Desert ours, and Stronghold theirs—“
“Burned to blackened walls!”
“—and only Skybowl and Feruche between, we’ll meet at one or the other and that will be the end of Zehava’s accursed line in our land!”
Releasing his uncle’s hand, he took up comb and mirror and tidied his thick hair. Then he slipped over his head the little dragon he’d hung on a chain. His safe-passage from Swalekeep, given him there by Varek who was second battlelord to the High Warlord of the Vellan-t’im, its gold matched the beads woven into his beard. Thirty-four tokens of men dead by his hand at Tuath, glistening so brightly in the candlelight that one almost didn’t notice the break in his beard where the scar on his chin had finally been given. Twice a man, he thought, smiling. And twice a prince. I wonder how my father would prefer to die...
Urstra saw his smile. “Admiring yourself?” he asked angrily. “Which are you? Merida or Vellanti? For whom do you fight?”
“For myself, Uncle. In me flows the blood of all three: Cunaxa, Vellant’im, and Merida. I am the cause all our people will believe in.”
At the doorflap of his tent, someone began to applaud. “Brilliant! Truly inspirational! Birioc, dear Brother, you have won my heart!”
Duroth ambled inside, long-limbed and sharp-featured like their father. “If you’re interested,” he went on, “everybody’s ready to go except you.”
“Hold your tongue or you’ll stay behind to strike my tent, and miss watching me kill Tallain.”
“What, not Riyan, too? And both in a single sword stroke? Oh, I beg pardon, Brother. A perfect, masterful thrust from one of your sacred glass knives.”
“Would you care for a demonstration?” Birioc caressed the weapon at his belt—a ceremonial piece only, with no poison inside.
“Save your energy for the battle, both of you!” Urstra snapped. “It’s time to mount and be quick about it.”
They rode through the chill gloom toward Zagroy’s Pillar. Gradually the sky lightened from cloud-shrouded night to a thin, milky pallor. Birioc ordered a pause on the rise overlooking the enemy camp and sent Duroth and Ezanto down to judge how long it had been abandoned. As he waited, the wind in his face, shadows sud- denly darkened the sand westward before the Pillar. The sun had cleared the cloudless horizon, hidden from Biri-oc’s army by towering stones.
His brothers returned to him. “They’re playing with us,” Duroth growled. “No more than fifty or sixty spent the night here.”
“Where are the rest?” Birioc demanded.
“How should I know?”
“How do you know the other, then?”
“Because,” Ezanto said levelly, “there’s not a single pile of horseshit to be seen, smelled, or stepped in.”
“Leading us,” Urstra muttered. “Teasing us onward. But where? Why?” He turned to his nephew. “I don’t like this.”
“Oh, and the rest of us are just in love with it,” Duroth snarled. “What do you propose to do now, dear Brother?”
Birioc squinted through the shadows to the dark hollow below. “We can wait for the rest of our levies, or we can march on them now.”
“You’ll have to find them first!”
“Be silent!” He chewed the tuft of beard beside his mouth. “What do they want us to do? Follow. What do they expect us to do? Grow impatient and attack, or stay here and wait for reinforcements.”
“The question is, what can we do?” Urstra said.
“There must be another alternative.”
“We’re waiting,” Duroth jeered.
Birioc’s right hand went for his sword. But the abrupt and blinding flash did not come from unsheathed steel. Light sliced through the sky from a chink atop the Pillar in dazzling blades made all the sharper, all the brighter for the shadows cast at sunrise.
From those shadows and the gigantic rocks behind them thundered the alternative.
*
Rialt was back in his chamber at dawn, having spent most of the night prowling the docks. They knew him there, and the guards allowed him to pass with nothing more than a nod. Rumor had it that Princess Chiana disliked him, but that was a matter for highborns. After all, had she not trusted him to supervise the loading of cargo sent south down the Faolain? He was a familiar face at the riverside warehouses, even at night in a pouring rain.
Mevita had stirred sleepily when he left. She was wide awake and shivering with cold when he returned.
“Don’t ask,” he told her before she could so much as open her mouth. “It’s better that you don’t know.”
Her face grew even paler amid the tangle of black hair. “Rialt,” she whispered, “what have you done?”
“Sky looks like it’s clearing,” he said determinedly as he stripped off his sopping cloak.
“Rialt!”
“Later on I’ll go see how Thina’s feeling. She slept all day yesterday in her rooms. Her maid says she has a cold.”
“Damn you! Tell me what you’ve done!”
Flinging his shirt to the floor, he turned on her. “The less you know, the less you’ll have to hide.”
At that, Mevita went white to the lips. Sudden dread filled him. He strode to the bed and cupped her square chin in his palm.
“What is it you’re hiding from me?” he asked quietly.
“It was the only way. Naydra and Cluthine and I all agreed—“
“To what?”
»We—“
He swung around as the door crashed open and three armed guards came into the room. Panic flayed him; he hadn’t been careful enough, someone had seen—
“Get dressed,” one of the men commanded, all three of them running appreciative eyes over Mevita in her bedgown.
“Get out of my chamber!” Rialt shouted.
“You’ve been given a new one,” was the smug reply. “Better dress warm for it.” He started for the bed.
Rialt drew his knife. “Touch my wife at your peril.”
“No, my lord, don’t!” Mevita gasped. “We’ll come with you,” she hurried on, pulling the sheet around her as she rose. “Give us a moment to find some clothes—“
“Be quick about it. And I’ll have that knife, my lord,” the guard said, with snide emphasis on the title.
Mevita’s pleading eyes and the sudden thought of their son made him surrender the blade. “I’m the one you want. Leave my wife alone.”
“Orders are to take you both. Be grateful your whelp’s young enough to be innocent of treason.”
“Treason?” he repeated blankly, weak with relief that Polev would be spared. But what would happen to him with his parents in prison? For surely that was the nature of their “new chamber.”
“That’s enough talk. Take the rest of your clothes with you. Hurry up!”
The corridors of Swalekeep were empty of all but a few servants as the pair were marched to a side staircase. Rialt steadied Mevita; she stumbled against him at the sight of the endless dark below. A torch was lit and they descended hundreds of steps—down past the wine cellars, past even the coldrooms where meat was stored. At last they came to a row of wooden doors with small barred windows. One was opened, and they were locked in a frozen, lightless room.
“You’ll wait on Princess Chiana’s pleasure,” the guard said through the barred window. He racked the torch in a sconce and marched his men back up the stairs.
Mevita sank onto the single cot and put her face in her hands. “Forgive me,” she breathed.
Rialt knelt before her on the damp stones. “It’s not your fault.”
She shook her head, her hair spilling over her hands.
“They must have discovered what I did tonight at the warehouses.” Slashing every sack of grain and fouling every crate of foodstuffs would have cost too much time and effort. It had taken much thought to devise a way to deprive Swalekeep of its supplies.
Mevita raked her hair back from her face. “Not fire. The alarm would’ve sounded by now.”
“No. Water. The river’s high—not at spring flood, but enough. I weakened the sluices. They should break sometime today.”
Her eyes brightened a little. “Like a castle cleaning out its moat.”
He nodded. That had been the theory when the system was built. A century or so earlier, accumulated filth had caused an outbreak of disease directly traced to food stored in a particular warehouse. Some clever architect had pointed out the convenient slope of the area and suggested an easy method of cleansing all the storage spaces. Ditches were dug, lined with stone, and paved over; access and drainage were cut in each successive building. Every autumn since, just before the harvest influx of goods, river water was let in to scour vermin and debris away—for what had happened once might happen again. But with the river high and the outlets closed, the water could not drain off as intended.
“The water will flow strongly enough to overset the sacks of grain,” Rialt said. “If I’m lucky, they’ll lodge against the drains and the whole place will be flooded hip-high before anyone can do anything. It has the advantage of looking accidental—“
He tensed at a sudden noise outside the cell, but it was only the scrabbling of rats, soon followed by the irritated hiss of a cat frustrated in the hunt.
“With her food stores ruined, Chiana might be forced to make her decision a little sooner. People won’t starve—but when they know their grain is no longer plentiful...” He shrugged.
“I never knew you so ruthless,” Mevita said quietly. “What happens after Swalekeep falls? Who will feed these people then?”
“Depends on who gets it, doesn’t it? If it’s the Vellan-t’im, then the grain is denied them as well. That’s the main thing. If it’s Tilal and Ostvel, wagons can bring food from the warehouses back in Waes.”
She nodded. “Which the enemy didn’t touch for fear of meeting the armies of Ossetia and Princemarch.”
“Because Chiana warned them,” Rialt finished. Taking her hands, he warmed them between his own. “But it’s all for nothing. They must have discovered what I did.”
“No. I don’t think it was you at all.” A tremor coursed through her—not from the cold.
“Tell me.”
She did, and he was too stunned for anger. He bent his head to their clasped hands, trying to think past the numbness of fear. Not that thought would avail him anything now.
“When Thina didn’t come back yesterday...” Mevita whispered. “She swore she’d be back by nightfall. Her maid is loyal, Naydra and I told her to say she’d caught a chill on her ride so no one would wonder for at least a little while—oh, Goddess, if anything’s happened to her I’ll never forgive myself.”
“Hush.” He rose on legs already stiff and aching with the chill. “She’s probably with Tilal right now.”
“You don’t believe that any more than I do.”
“We have to believe it. If both our plans have come to nothing—“
“—it will all have been for nothing.” She was silent for a few moments. “Rialt ... can Naydra protect Polev? She’s a princess, and Chiana’s sister—she’ll be able to keep him safe, won’t she?”
“Of course she will.” But he didn’t tell her not to worry.
*
“That, my friends, is how Prince Zagroy did it.” Pol, Tallain, and Riyan sat their weary warhorses watching what remained of the Cunaxans and Merida shuffle into ragged, sullen formation. The battle had been terrible, the victory total.
“And it’s only noon,” Pol added. “Not a bad morning’s work.”
Of the over one thousand caught in sunlight and shadow, no more than a third were still standing. Another third lay dead on blood-browned sand. The rest, the wounded, lay in tidy rows nearby. As they shifted restlessly in the bright sun, the ground seemed to crawl. Tallain’s mind, using his body’s memory of thrust and withdraw, attack and parry, could guess how many he had put there. But his instincts were certain that not one of them was Pol’s doing. Every man and woman Pol had faced died.
Their own losses were scarce a hundred. The shock of attack from the shadows and the bedazzlement of sudden sunlight had worked as intended.
“My father had the right idea,” Pol had said a little while ago, while they eased their thirst with the contents of his wineskin and waited for the captains to herd the stragglers. “Let the Desert do our killing for us. But we have to use the Desert. Kazander and I did that at the Harps. We’ve done it again today. The land must become one of our soldiers. That’s how we’ll approach battle with the Vellant’im. I want the very sand beneath their feet to fight them.”
And so it had this morning, as they slipped and stumbled in their panic down the soft hill into the hollow, and were slaughtered.
Lord Kazander galloped up, saluted extravagantly, and announced, “Noble and mighty High Prince, your most grateful servant begs to bring your grace the whoresons among them who claim to be highborn of Miyon. They seem to believe this will spare them,” he added, grinning beneath his black mustache.
“What will you do with them?” Tallain asked.
Pol smiled.
“You!” Kazander shouted over his shoulder. “Come forward!”
Four men, separated from the others by the korrus’ order, approached with heads defiantly tilted. One of them bore the familiar ritual scar, a whiteness against dark skin and stubble. But as he neared, Tallain knew that this man, though so obviously a Merida, was too old to be one of Miyon’s bastard sons.
Pol regarded them almost pleasantly. “Which of you is Ezanto?”
One inclined his head. Tallain guessed him to be about twenty-five, though the years were hard to judge. It wasn’t the sweat and dirt, nor even the blood smearing his face from a sword cut in his scalp; it was the bitter pride that aged him. “Zanyr?”
A second man gave a start. Alone of them, his eyes showed not rage but fear. It made him look very young. “You are Duroth, then?” Pol said, and the third young man, tall and lanky and with the look of his father stamped on his features, acknowledged his name with a sardonically arched brow.
Pol turned his attention to the fourth. “Which means I am meant to believe you are Birioc—you with your Merida scar.” He hooked a casual knee around the pommel of his saddle and leaned an elbow on his thigh. “Well, well,” he murmured. “Where is he, I wonder? Where is Birioc to complete my collection of Miyon’s bastard sons?”
“Say rather where is the bastard daughter,” the older man snapped. “Your wife!”
Kazander’s young kinsman, Visian, prodded him sharply in the back. “You will speak of her grace with respect or not at all!”
Pol’s smile didn’t waver a fraction. “Oh, I know where my wife is. At Feruche, with my own daughters—one of whom is now Princess of Cunaxa. Depending on which of them wants it. But we can settle all that later, when they’re grown.” He turned his smile on Tallain. “Until that time, Cunaxa is yours, my Lord Regent.”
“My prince,” Tallain murmured, bending his head in acceptance. But he had never wanted anything from these people except that they leave his lands alone. Fighting had been their idea, not his.
“Miyon still lives,” the Merida pointed out. “He is Prince of Cunaxa—“
“—and he is my father!” Ezanto blurted.
“You have my sympathies,” Pol told him. He began removing his gloves, finger by finger. “I haven’t endured him at close quarters as long as you have, of course, but I think we can agree that knowing him has not enhanced our lives. Being his son-by-marriage is trial enough. I can imagine what it must be like being his son by blood. Never knowing what, if anything, will be your lot after his death. Never sure which of you is in favor to become prince after him. But, my lords—I’ll give you that much, as you are prince’s sons—my lords, I have solved your problems.”
He held up his left hand so they could see the great topaz-and-emerald ring glistening in the noon sun. Beside it was the amethyst-and-topaz of Princemarch, dark and glowering.
“It is the responsibility of the High Prince to make a final decision on matters of princely importance. My lords, you are looking at the High Prince.”
All four flinched to varying degrees. The Merida sucked in a breath after the initial shock, and Tallain thought him close to a shout of sheer joy. If he released it, Tallain knew his sword would claim one more life today.
“Rohan—dead?” the Merida whispered. His eyes kindled, but only briefly. Tallain’s fingers relaxed.
Pol acted as if he had not heard. “Miyon is deposed. Cunaxa is now mine.” He smiled once more, a mere stretching of his lips. “This is the will of the High Prince.”
Tallain set his face in flint. Pol had no right to take Cunaxa this way. They all knew it. No one spoke. A glance at Riyan showed him the same stony refusal to reveal his thoughts—but those thoughts were clearly carved in bone and muscle just the same.
Pol was speaking again. “My Lord Kazander, be so good as to tie the three of them to horses. We’ll take them back to Feruche with us. And you may see to the others now.”
“At once, my prince.” The korrus bowed and sprang eagerly from his saddle.
Pol sat straighter. “You. Merida.” Long fingers rubbed lightly at the single Sunrunner’s ring—gold, on the right middle finger, set with the moonstone that had been Andrade’s. “Stand over there.”
Riyan didn’t speak; Tallain couldn’t. His family had fought the Merida for generations; everyone in the Northern Desert had. He had killed at least a score of them through his years of holding Tiglath. He had killed many more at Tuath, and here at Zagroy’s Pillar.
But no Merida had ever died like this. A sudden circle of Sunrunner’s Fire sprang up around him, arched into a searing cage. He panicked and made the mistake of trying to escape it. His clothes and hair and flesh caught. There was one scream, and then silence.
Tallain knew—in a remote, impersonal way—why Pol had done it. He was the High Prince. The Sunrunner High Prince. The oath he’d never sworn had not been violated. The Merida’s own fear had been his death. Had he not touched the Fire, he would still be alive.
Pol let his right hand fall to his side. The flames were gone. “Tallain, how much rest will your Tiglathis need? What I mean is, can you ride this afternoon to chase down Birioc?”
Tallain nodded mutely. From the corner of his eye he had seen Kazander and Visian walking methodically down the rows of wounded. They stopped every two paces and stabbed—once to the right, once to the left, as precisely as surgeons—through the heart.
Pol’s order. This was not the work of the man he’d known, nor the boy Sionell had once loved. Tallain wanted out. Away. Now.
“Thank you. Once you have him, send him to me at Feruche.” Pol put on his gloves again. “Keep your levies at Tiglath for the time being. I won’t need you for some while yet, and there’s no room at Feruche to house them anyway. Oh, and you might start thinking about what portions of Cunaxa should be added to what young Jeren inherited from Jahnavi at Tuath. I’m afraid we’ll be a is the only thing that matters. Without it, what we do and how we do it become demons to claw at our minds—
“Tallain, you look as bad as I feel,” Pol said.
He looked at his prince. “I’m fine. We’ll start off now, by your leave.”
“I understand.” Pol smiled, and the weariness was like another scar on his face, like the one on his cheekbone. “If I get down from this saddle again, I’ll fall down and not get up again for two days.” He glanced at the sky, his gaze blank. After a moment he nodded and said, “Birioc is headed northwest, more or less toward Tuath. He’s got twenty men with him. Don’t lose him in the canyons. Take him tomorrow or the next day and then go home, Tallain. And be sure to give Meiglan’s love to Sionell.”
He didn’t like hearing his wife’s name on Pol’s lips. Nodding once more, he wheeled his horse around and signaled to his captain to call assembly.
“We’re going hunting,” he told the man. “And then we’re going home.”