The Horsemen's Gambit

Chapter 8

For the first several days after the Harvest Tournament it seemed to Tirnya that nobody in the city spoke of anything except her failure to draw blood from Enly while the lord heir was down, and her subsequent defeat in that final match. Most thought they were doing her a kindness by telling her how honorably she had fought. Others made it clear that they thought she was too soft to be an effective warrior, or an effective captain in His Lordship's army, for that matter. As her father had counseled that first day, she tried to listen only to those who saw the virtue in what she had done, but ignoring her doubters proved nearly impossible.

Soon enough, however, her days and nights were occupied with more pressing matters. The brigands who had been harassing peddlers on the roads south of the city were expanding their assaults, striking at travelers from the north as well. At any time, the lord governor had little patience for such lawlessness in his lands. But with the Harvest trading well under way, he seemed to view these attacks as a personal affront, as if the brigands were plundering gold from His Lordship's treasury. He ordered his captains to rid the lands around the city of all the outlaws and he made it clear that he didn't care if any of his soldiers ate or slept again until his orders had been carried out. He even went so far as to offer a bounty of ten sovereigns for each brigand killed or caught.

Needless to say, Tirnya's soldiers spent nearly as much time planning how to spend the gold they expected to earn as they did actually hunting for the road thieves. To their credit, Oliban and the other lead riders in her company kept the foot soldiers on task much of the time. As a result, Tirnya's riders claimed a good portion of His Lordship's gold as their own. As had always been her way, Tirnya ordered that any gold earned by soldiers in her company be shared equally by all, regardless of which man struck the wounding or killing blow. She had learned this policy from her father, who had once told her that the worst thing a commander could do was to pit one of his men against another.

"They live and die as a company," he had told her, when she was first learning the rudiments of command. "They ought to share equally in everything. The glory of one is the glory of all; the same is true of failure."

Maisaak's rewards struck her as being no different, and her men appeared to agree. That said, she took no share of the gold for herself. She earned enough as their leader.

Enly's company and that of Stri Balkett also claimed a fair amount of Maisaak's gold, but by the end of the waxing, small bands of brigands still remained at large. His Lordship's patience, as all of them knew, was far from boundless, and most days Tirnya and her men were on duty from midday to dawn. In the few hours afforded them in the mornings, they slept and ate, and saw to whatever other duties their lives demanded. Her men were ragged with fatigue, and Tirnya was not much better off.

Her father complained bitterly about how hard the lord governor was pushing them, but when Tirnya pressed him he admitted that, if he were ruler of the city, he would do much the same. The brigands' attacks had taken a heavy toll. Dozens of peddlers had lost their gold and their wares over the past turn and a half. Many had been wounded, and, to date, eleven people were known to have been murdered. The thieves had also taken a heavy toll on trade throughout the city, and would continue to do so until they were wiped out. Already there was talk in the marketplace of merchants avoiding Qalsyn, of traders in other towns and villages saying that the city was no longer safe. Crafters in the city and farmers from the surrounding countryside had goods to sell; they needed gold so that they could buy their provisions for the coming Snows. Tirnya was desperate for rest, and though she had no affection for Maisaak, she understood why he was demanding so much of her and her company.

Yet, even with all of Qalsyn gripped by talk of the brigands and the skirmishes being fought beyond the city walls, Tirnya also managed to listen to other tales being bandied about among the peddlers' carts and stalls of the city marketplace. These stories had nothing to do with thieves, or for that matter with this city. Rather, they pertained to the outbreak of pestilence in the Central Plain.

Since hearing of the pestilence at the Swift Water Inn just after the tournament, she had thought about it in odd moments, and had sought out any who might bear tidings from that part of the land. Word from so far off was hard to come by, but occasionally she found merchants, many of them Qirsi, who had journeyed from the West. She generally avoided white-hairs-her family had fought against the Fal'Borna for centuries and though she had never so much as had an argument with one, she hated them for what they had done to Deraqor. But she would have spoken with the a'laq of her beloved city if only he could tell her something about what was happening on the plain.

From what little she did learn, it seemed that the pestilence had struck most fiercely at the Y'Qatt settlements near the Companion Lakes, but that it had spread westward as the Harvest went on. She had not heard of it striking any villages to the east of the Silverwater.

On this morning, she had circled twice through the marketplace looking for merchants to question and was debating whether to walk around a third time or return home to snatch a few hours of sleep before beginning her next patrol. She had nearly made up her mind to make her way to bed when she saw another merchant steering his cart into the market. He was an older man, Eandi, with brown hair that was thinning and turning silver. His cart looked to be nearly as old as he, and his horse could hardly be called young. His clothes fit him well, but they were plain and threadbare. In short, there was little about him that would have caught her attention on any other day. But she noticed immediately that he carried animal skins prominently displayed on his cart. Rilda skins.

She watched as he selected a spot to stop his cart-a narrow space between two other Eandi merchants, both Qosantians by the look of them. The newcomer looked to be one of the Wolf People as well. He had the fair complexion of the lowlanders, and his horse, a small roan, also put her in mind of the mounts she had seen from Qosantia. As he began to set out his wares, Tirnya approached him.

One of the other merchants must have said something to him, because he turned quickly and smiled.

"What can I do for you, Captain?" he asked, his accent subtle, but definitely Qosantian. "A sword perhaps?" He began to search through those items that he had yet to remove from his cart. "I've shillads, Aelean steel, bodkins from Tordjanne." He glanced back at her, a conspiratorial grin on his angular face. "I even have a few daggers forged by the T'Saan. Very rare in these parts."

She shook her head, wondering if there were really Eandi soldiers who would deign to carry a white-hair blade into battle.

"No," she said. "I'm not looking for a new blade."

"Of course. Jewelry then. A woman as lovely as you-surely there's more to your life than training and battles."

"No, I'm not interested in jewelry either." Tirnya raised a hand to keep him from offering more goods. "I need information."

His face fell, and he went back to sorting his goods, setting some out on his blankets, leaving other items in the cart.

"I have precious little of that," he said, his voice flat.

Tirnya grinned at how quickly he'd gone from charming to sullen. "You've been in Fal'Borna land."

"What makes you say so?"

"The rilda skins. Only the Fal'Borna can tan so well."

The man straightened, smiling again, perhaps sensing that he might make a sale after all. "They are fine ones, aren't they? Four sovereigns apiece, and that will also buy all that I know about the Fal'Borna, and anything else you might ask."

"Four is high, for the skin and the information." She scanned his blankets quickly, her gaze coming to rest on a curved knife with a polished stone handle. She pointed at it. "But I'll give you two for that. And some answers."

He shook his head and frowned as if the tale he was about to tell her was too sad to bear. "Would that I could sell it for so little, Captain," he said. "But that's as fine a blade as you'll find in Qosantia, and what's more, it may well be the last of its kind. The man who made it, a smith named Clarton, died this past Growing. Tragic tale, actually. His poor wife and children-"

"I haven't time for tales, tragic or otherwise," Tirnya said. "And I won't pay more than two. Now, I can ask you questions with your blade on my belt and my gold in your pocket, or I can simply ask. One way or another, I intend to have answers. It's your choice."

"He had children, you know," the merchant said, looking wounded. "Now they're orphans."

She raised an eyebrow. "His widow died, too?"

"What?"

"The children are only orphans if both parents have died."

He opened his mouth, then faltered, his brow creasing.

"You might want to work on your story a bit more," she said. She heard one of the other merchants snickering.

He stared at her another moment, his mouth twisting sourly. Then he picked up the blade, handed it to her, and held out his other palm for her coins. "What do you want to know?"

She didn't give him the money right away. "Where were you before you came to Stelpana?"

"The plain, just as you said."

"And you were trading with the Fal'Borna?"

The man nodded. "I was after skins: rilda, wildcat, wolf. Didn't find much by way of cats or wolves, but they had plenty of rilda. I also found some wooden bowls and a good deal of the grain the white-hairs grow. It fetches a fair price as you head farther east. I had some blankets, beaver and stoat pelts, baskets, even a bit of Tordjanni wine. I did well, considering."

She narrowed her eyes. "Considering what?"

The merchant shrugged. "Considering that I was trading with the Fal'Borna. They're a difficult people."

That much Tirnya knew. "Was there any talk of the pestilence in the septs you visited?"

"There's always talk of the pestilence, Captain, particularly when it's been found in other places, like the Y'Qatt villages." He frowned. "But now that you mention it, I did hear, a few days after stopping in one sept, that it had been destroyed by disease of some sort. They weren't calling it the pestilence. It was some white-hair plague that they talked about."

"Who talked about it?"

He shrugged. "Other merchants. They say it strikes at their magic. It makes them sick-the white-hairs, that is-and then it attacks their magic, so that they destroy themselves and their homes." The man shook his head. "Bad business, if you ask me. I'm no friend of their kind, mind you, but I'm a merchant before anything else, and I'm telling you that if we can't trade with the Qirsi, there's going to be a good deal less gold in the sovereignties."

"You can't expect it to kill all the Qirsi," Tirnya said, thinking that the man must have been listening to some wild tales.

"No, I don't. But I know for a fact that the Fal'Borna are starting to turn merchants away. They think that the plague is being spread by Eandi traders."

Tirnya shivered in spite of herself, as if a frigid finger had traced the length of her spine. "Why would they think that?"

"Because none of us even gets sick, and all of them die."

"None of us…?"

"By all rights, I should be dead, Captain," the merchant said. "I was there just before the outbreak started. I heard things about it-" He broke off, swallowing and looking away briefly. "I should be dead," he finally said again.

Tirnya wasn't certain what to say. In the end, she merely nodded once, placed the coins in the man's hand, and walked away.

She didn't have long before her next patrol was to begin, but still she returned to her home and lay down for a time, hoping to sleep just a bit. She barely even closed her eyes. It didn't help that Zira, her mother, made no effort to lower her voice when speaking to Tirnya's brothers. But Tirnya doubted that she would have slept in any case. She spent the entire time turning over in her head again and again all that the merchant had told her. As when she first heard of this outbreak of the pestilence, she couldn't say why it occupied her mind so. There seemed to be little danger of the disease coming to Qalsyn; the Companion Lakes, where it seemed to have begun, were far from here, and the disease was spreading westward, away from Stelpana. She wasn't afraid, either for herself or for her people.

But she couldn't stop wondering about the fate of Deraqor, or rather, D'Raqor, as the Fal'Borna now called it. When Stri first told her of the pestilence that night in the Swift Water, Tirnya was relieved to hear that the disease had not reached her ancestral home. But now her feelings were more ambivalent. What might it mean if Deraqor were struck by the plague the merchant had described? It seemed, from what the man had told her, that this strain of the pestilence unleashed the white-hairs' magic, which might well damage the city. That would be unfortunate. But he had said far more than that. None of us even gets sick, and all of them die.

Surely he couldn't have meant that the pestilence killed every white-hair in those cities it struck. Could he? She had never heard of the Fal'Borna turning away merchants. As hard and unwelcoming as the horsemen of the plain were said to be, they rarely turned down a chance to trade. They must have been terrified of this plague to go to such extraordinary lengths to keep it away. And Tirnya knew that the Fal'Borna feared nothing.

"They fear this," she whispered to herself.

She heard bells tolling from the city gates. Midday: time to resume her patrols. She rose from her bed and left the house, not bothering to say anything to her mother.

She and Zira rarely spoke. As a girl Tirnya had taken up swords and daggers rather than dolls and pretty clothes, and that decision had forever marked her as Jenoe's daughter rather than Zira's. During her fourth four, as she grew from a coltish, long-limbed girl to the woman she was now, her mother had tried to lure her away from Jenoe's influence.

"Swordplay is fine for children," Zira told her on Tirnya's twelfth birthday. "But a young woman must turn her mind to other pursuits. You're beautiful, Tirnya; you must know that. You've a lovely face, fine hair, a good figure." She offered these observations not as compliments, but rather as statements of fact, as if she were the lord governor's treasurer, cataloging His Lordship's holdings. "I feared that all that time you wasted wrestling with your brothers and playing with arms would spoil your looks, but you've been fortunate. Now it's time for you to put away your blades and put on your dresses."

"There are women in His Lordship's army," Tirnya had argued. "Common women. Daughters of farmers and smiths and farriers. Not the daughter of a man like your father."

"Papa doesn't mind. He likes it that I'm good with a sword."

Her mother's expression hardened at that. She was a beauty as well; Tirnya looked just like her. She had pale blue eyes, a wide, sensuous mouth, and honey brown hair that fell to the shoulder in waves. But when Zira grew angry, her beauty became as dangerous and forbidding as that of a highlands lion.

"He indulges you," she said, as if it were the worst crime a father could commit.

"He loves me. He wants me to be happy. Why is it you don't?"

Tirnya left the house before her mother could respond, and for a long time afterward, they didn't discuss dresses or swords again. There were times when she heard her parents speaking about her, and those discussions usually ended in fights. But her father never said anything to her; he certainly never tried to change her. Eventually, Tirnya's relationship with her mother improved; they were cordial with each other, though not warm. Occasionally Zira would speak to her of how important it was that she marry well, and how difficult it would be for her to find a husband so long as she insisted on training with common soldiers. Tirnya pretended to listen, but she rarely responded, even to argue the point, and she continued to hone her skills with a sword. Her best revenge was that she took to calling her mother "Zira" to her face, rather than "Mother." Her mother hated it, which was why she did it. Her father begged her to stop, but she refused. It was a habit that had become so ingrained that she couldn't have stopped even if she had wanted to. And the truth was she didn't.

She made her way to the palace armory where every day she met the soldiers in her company. Oliban and the other lead riders had already gathered the men in formations of eight, and the stableboy had saddled her sorrel, Thirus.

"G'day, Captain," Oliban said, raising a hand in greeting and smiling. "All present and ready to ride."

"Good."

She walked among the men, checking their weapons and armor, making certain that their mounts were properly harnessed, though she had little doubt that they would be. Her lead riders would have seen to it before she arrived.

She'd been fortunate with the men assigned to her, or perhaps her father and his commanders had chosen them with extra care. Despite what she'd told her mother all those years ago-that there were other women in the lord governor's army-few women became captains. Oliban, Qagan Fawler, Dyn Grathidar, and her other lead riders could easily have chosen to make command difficult for her. She would have disciplined them, but if they had worked together to disrupt her company, they could have made it seem as if she was incompetent. She knew of riders under other captains who would have done just that if they had been assigned to her. Many soldiers chafed at the idea of serving under a woman, particularly one as young as she. To this day, some in the army claimed that she'd been promoted quickly, not because of her fighting skill or abilities as a leader, but solely on the basis of being Jenoe Onjaef's daughter. And truth be told, Oliban and the others had seemed skeptical when she first took command of the company. But from the start they obeyed her orders and gave her every opportunity to succeed rather than looking for ways to make her fail.

They may have done this out of respect for her father, rather than in response to anything she did as their captain. Tirnya didn't care. At this point, more than a year since she had been promoted to captain, her men liked and respected her, and their company had earned a reputation as one of the finest in Maisaak's army.

Finishing her inspection, she nodded to her leads. "Excellent." She swung herself onto Thirus and faced the men again. A light, misting rain had begun to fall, but the air was warmer than it had been for several days. Certainly not ideal weather for a patrol, but not the worst either. "We have the south road today," she told them. "Enly reported trouble there yesterday, as did Stri the day before, but neither of them managed to capture anyone." She allowed herself a sly grin. "I won't presume to comment."

The men laughed.

"But I expect that we'll find brigands there today, and I have every confidence that the next time we drink ales at the Swift Water, they'll be bought with His Lordship's bounty."

All of them cheered.

Wheeling her mount around, Tirnya led them out of the palace courtyard, through the city lanes, to the south gate. Once outside the city walls, they rearranged themselves into tighter, diamond-shaped formations and spread out to cover the lane leading from the gate as well as the sparse woodlands on either side of the road. Tirnya, as was her custom, remained on the lane, beside Oliban at the head of the first diamond.

They rode in silence, watchful, alert to any sound. Road brigands generally roamed in bands of ten to twenty men; they wouldn't engage a force as large as Tirnya's if they didn't have to. Instead, they'd try to keep out of sight and hope that the soldiers would pass by without noticing them. Like all His Lordship's soldiers, Tirnya's men had been trained not to let that happen. They knew these woodlands well, and they knew what to search for: disturbed patches in the leaf litter, clusters of shrubs and trees that appeared unusually dense, freshly broken twigs and plant stalks. Such signs were as likely to be made by woodland beasts-deer, fox, boar-as by outlaws. More often than not, soldiers investigating such signs would find no one. But still they investigated every lead.

This day was no different. In the first few hours of their patrol, they followed several trails into the forest, only to find that they led nowhere. One rider and his group stumbled upon a herd of elk, and another saw what they believed was a fox den. But they encountered no brigands.

"These last holdouts are th' clever ones," Oliban said in a low voice, as they continued to ride. "They've gone this long without being caught. If they've stayed this close t' th' city, they won't be on th' main road."

Tirnya nodded. "I'm listening."

Oliban pointed toward a narrow, overgrown path coming up on their right. There was a lattice of such trails in the woodland, nearly all of them leading off the main road. They were little more than footpaths, worn into roads by repeated use by those on foot, and the occasional rider. Some led to favored hunting grounds, others to spots where rare herbs or roots were known to grow. Some were even used by petty thieves who preyed on travelers singly or in small bands. They would make fine hiding places for the outlaws.

"All right," Tirnya said. "We'll have a look."

She halted, raising her hand over her head, signaling her company to stop and gather around her.

"We're going to check some of these smaller paths," she said, once all her men were close enough to hear. "Oliban has suggested that the brigands have retreated farther into the woodland to evade our patrols."

"We've already passed several paths," said Dyn, his red hair dampened by the rain and clinging to his brow. "We would have noticed if they had been traveled."

Another of her lead riders, a man known simply as Crow, for his raven black hair, his black eyes, and his willingness to eat anything, shook his head. "They wouldn't be so obvious. They'd avoid the main road, and find the paths in the woods."

Dyn nodded. "Right. Of course."

"We'll split up," Tirnya said. "Two groups on this path, two on the next. The rest of you remain here and listen for sounds of engagement. If we have trouble, you'll be our reinforcements."

Dyn and Oliban exchanged a look. Tirnya knew what they were thinking.

"Uh, Captain," Oliban began, looking unsure of himself. "Ya ought t' stay here. For all we know, we'll be ridin' into an ambush."

"All the more reason for me to be leading you," Tirnya said, though she knew what they'd say to this as well.

"That's no' th' way His Lordship would see it," Dyn said, taking up the argument, "or… or th' marshal."

The marshal: her father. Dyn and Oliban were both right. This was precisely the reason why captains had lead riders, soldiers they could trust with command in situations that called for smaller companies. Still, it went against all of her instincts. She had great faith in Oliban and the others. But given the choice between putting herself in danger and risking the lives of the men who served her, she would always choose the former. And, she had to admit, she enjoyed the excitement of this kind of work. She wanted to go down these paths; every one of them.

"All right," she said. "Oliban, Crow, you take this one. Dyn and Qagan, you and your men take the next. The rest of us will wait here. If you don't see any evidence of activity on the path in, say, a thousand fourspans or so, come back. There are plenty more for us to search."

"Yes, Captain," Oliban said, speaking for them all, as he so often did.

"Have a care. You're right: You could be riding into an ambush." She nodded toward the horn Oliban carried on his belt. "At the first sign of trouble, you blow that, understand?" She looked at her other lead riders. "That goes for all of you."

"Of course, Captain."

The four groups quickly arrayed themselves into columns and started down the two paths. Soon they had disappeared from view, though for a few moments longer Tirnya could still hear the jangling of harnesses and the occasional snort of a horse. Before long she no longer heard even that much.

"The rest of you can get off your horses for a bit," she said. "But stay near your mounts, in case we need to ride in quickly. And keep the noise to a minimum. If we can't hear them, we can't help them."

Some of the men dismounted; others didn't. Tirnya remained on Thirus, listening intently for any sound of combat. She was sure that she would hear a skirmish if one began, but the longer she waited, the less certain she felt. Angry with herself for allowing Dyn and Oliban to talk her out of going with one of them, she was just about to lead a group of men down the first of the paths when Dyn and Qagan emerged from the wood, leading all of their men.

"Nothing?" Tirnya asked, masking her relief.

Qagan shook his head.

A few moments later, Oliban and Crow returned as well.

Tirnya was not yet ready to give up on the idea, and she sent her other four lead riders down the next pair of paths. Again they found no sign of the brigands. Reaching a third pair of trails, Tirnya decided to try it one last time. Once more, she sent Crow and Oliban in one direction, Dyn and Qagan in the other.

As before, she found the wait interminable, but by this time she had grown less convinced that they were apt to find anything. She was still listening for any sound of struggle, but her mind had begun to wander back to her conversation with the merchant and all he told her about the pestilence. So when the first shouts and clashes of steel reached her, it took her a moment to locate the sound. An instant later she heard a horn blow, and then a second, both of them from the eastern side of the road. Oliban and Crow.

Recovering quickly, she shouted "This way!" to her men, kicked at Thirus's flanks, and plunged into the woodland, the remaining half of her company just behind her.

She heard the horns again, and more sounds of fighting. They weren't far; five hundred fourspans at most. And she was about to ride into the thick of it. Even knowing this, though, she didn't slow down. She'd been frustrated and impatient all day long, waiting for her men to return from their forays into the woods, wondering if she'd been wrong not to go with them. Now they'd found the brigands, and she refused to let Crow and Oliban face them without her. At that moment she couldn't have said if she was driven by fear for her men or by battle lust or simply by pride. Nor was she certain that she wanted to know.

Emerging into a small clearing, she saw her men battling perhaps a dozen of the outlaws. Several men already lay on the ground, most of them brigands, though at least one man down was wearing the blue and green uniform of Qalsyn. She had no time to notice more, for at that moment an arrow caught her full force just above her right breast, knocking her off her mount and onto her back. The impact of her fall stunned her momentarily, though she had sense enough to cover her head with her arms, lest she be kicked by one of the horses trailing her.

In the next moment several of her men were beside her, concern on their faces making them look so young. When had they gotten so young?

She heard fighting all around her, tried to get up so that she could join in. But she could barely make herself move at all. Steel on steel, war cries and neighing of horses. All around her. Yet the sounds seemed to be receding, and the light with it.

"Captain?" one of the men said, sounding so scared, so young. Not one of her lead riders, but another one. What was his name? She knew all of their names. At least she had. "Captain?"

"I'm all right. Don't be scared." That's what she tried to say. "What's your name?"

She wasn't certain, though, that she managed to say anything. And then all was darkness.

She was on foot, carrying her shillad and dagger, as if ready for a match in the Harvest Tournament. But rather than being in the ring, surrounded by a cheering audience, she was in the city.

No, that wasn't right either. She was in a city, but it wasn't Qalsyn.

The two thoughts reached her together, like some twin-headed creature from the Underrealm. I'm dreaming, and This is Deraqor. She heard a thin cry above her, looked up, and saw a falcon circling overhead, black against a bright blue sky.

"I am dreaming, aren't I?" she asked the bird.

It cried out again, a hawk's plaintive note. And yet she heard words within the sound. "Yes, a dream." And then it said, "Deraqor," anticipating her next question.

She nodded, and began to walk. There should have been an army with her. Where were Oliban and Dyn, Crow and Qagan? This was folly, trying to take back her family's city by herself. The white-hairs would defend it to the death. They would attack her with blades and arrows and, most dreaded of all, their evil magic.

But no attack came. The streets were empty.

Again, that wasn't right. Or rather, it was, until she formed the thought. Now, though…

There were bodies. Hundreds of bodies. They lined the street, arrayed neatly in rows, as if they had gathered to watch a parade. Every corpse was Qirsi, every one of them dressed in a white robe, so that they looked like sleeping wraiths. Tirnya felt that she should have been terrified, but there was nothing gruesome about the bodies, nothing to give any indication of what had killed them. Yes, sleeping wraiths. That's what they were.

And the city! Looking away from the bodies, Tirnya lost herself in reverie at the beauty of that city. Buildings constructed of red and pink stone-river stone, they called it; her father had told her that much. Lofty spires from the sanctuary soaring upward, seeming to pierce that blue like blades; the low jumble of houses, some stone, some wood, sprawled at the feet of the God's shrine, like supplicants bowing before a prelate; the gentle curve of the city walls, punctuated at regular intervals by arched gates. She had never seen a city so lovely.

"It is yours," the falcon said. "If you want it." The bird wheeled above her, angling its wings, twisting its tail slightly, its flight as effortless as thought. "But there is a cost."

She didn't care. This was Deraqor! Her city! Her family's ancestral home! The Onjaefs belonged here. How pleased her father would be when he learned that she had taken it back. But she knew she had to ask, that the falcon expected it of her. And this was a dream, with a logic of its own.

"What cost? Tell me, and I'll pay it."

The bird wheeled a second time, tucked in its wings to dive, pulling up just above her and hovering there. "Look!" it said, the cry both sharp and mournful.

Tirnya lowered her gaze once more.

Bodies; even more than there had been. But not dressed in white anymore, not neatly arrayed, not only Qirsi. Bodies everywhere. Hacked, broken, brutalized. Severed limbs, spilled innards, and so much blood. More blood than Tirnya had known existed, coursing through the streets like the Silverwater in flood, running over her feet, soaking through the leather of her boots. She took a great breath, opened her mouth to scream.

And woke, her eyes fluttering open.

"Gods be praised!" a voice said. Her father. That was her father who spoke.

"Captain?"

She peered up into the thin, tanned face of an older man. She was in her own bedroom. Her chest hurt, as did her head.

It came back to her in a rush. The arrow. Falling back off Thirus. Thirus!

"My horse," she said, her voice sounding thick.

She heard her father chuckle. "That's my daughter."

She tried to make herself sit up, but her body didn't respond.

"Hold on there, Captain," the older man said. "You've taken a nasty fall and you had an arrow in you. You're not going anywhere for a while."

"My men?

"You lost two," her father said, stepping to the side of her bed and looking down at her. "Four more were wounded, but they'll be fine. Thirus is unhurt and in the stable, and the brigands you encountered are all either dead or captured. Twenty-one in all. Your men have a good deal of gold coming to them."

Two men dead! She turned her face away, feeling tears on her cheeks. That simple motion made her stomach heave, and she almost was ill. Two men. She wondered which ones.

"She's past the worst of it now, Marshal," the older man said. "Keep that poultice on her wound for the rest of the night; the betony will keep the bleeding to a minimum and ease the swelling, and the lavender will keep it from becoming fevered. And keep giving her that brew. Sanicle and sweet-wort. It'll keep the pain in check and help her sleep. That's what she needs most now. Rest."

"Thank you, healer."

Tirnya knew that voice, too.

"Mother?" she said, looking past Jenoe.

Her mother stood near the door, her face pale in the lamplight.

"I'm glad you're better," she said, smiling, though she appeared to be blinking back tears. After a moment Zira looked away. "Come, healer. I'll show you out."

The older man nodded. He glanced down at Tirnya again. "I'll come back to see you tomorrow, Captain."

"Thank you."

He left the chamber, followed by Tirnya's mother.

Her window was slightly ajar, and she could see that night had fallen. "How long was I…?" Her thoughts were so scattered. What had she just been dreaming?

"It's nearly time for the gate close," her father said. "They brought you back here several hours ago."

"Mother was here."

He frowned, but there was a smile on his lips. "Yes, of course. What did you expect?"

"Do you know… what were the names of the men who died?" She didn't want to answer his question.

"I don't know. I'm sorry."

"I've never… I've had men wounded before, but I've never lost any."

Her father brushed a strand of hair off her forehead, looking sad and relieved and much older than she'd ever seen him. "Think about that tomorrow. Tonight you need rest." He straightened.

"Do you think I was wrong to search the paths?" she asked quickly, afraid he would leave her.

Again he frowned, and shook his head. "No. It was a fine idea."

"Oliban thought of it."

"Then he's to be commended."

"But if we hadn't searched there…"

Her father shook his head. "A commander can't think that way. You lost two good men, but you did what was expected of you, and more. Every soldier knows that his next battle could be his last. I don't know the names of the men who died, and even if I did, I probably couldn't tell you much about them. But they knew the risks of what they were doing."

She nodded, knowing he was right, knowing as well that it would still take some time before her guilt and grief went away.

"As long as we're on the subject, though," her father went on, "I can't say that I like the idea of you leading a charge like that. You're fortunate to be alive."

"You'd have me ride at the back of the column instead of the front?"

"A company needs its captain. When a commander, any commander, falls in battle, it places all the men in a company at risk."

"I see," Tirnya said. "And I take it you always ride at the back when your men charge into battle."

"He never has that I know of." Zira walked to her bedside. "I can't tell you how to lead soldiers into a battle," she said. "But I can say that your father has never ridden at the back of a column in his entire life."

Tirnya had to smile. "I didn't think so."

"No more talk of soldiers or battles," Zira said. "She needs sleep."

Her father kissed Tirnya's forehead, and then her mother did the same. Tirnya couldn't remember the last time she had done such a thing. Zira sat beside her and held the cup of the healer's brew to Tirnya's lips. Tirnya drank as much of it as she could before turning her face away. It was too heavy and too sweet.

"No more," she said.

Her mother nodded and stood. She took Jenoe's hand and they started toward the door.

Tirnya closed her eyes, feeling sleepy. But as soon as she closed them, she saw the city again, the shadow of a falcon flashing across the face of a red building.

"I dreamed of Deraqor," she said, opening her eyes once more. Her parents stopped and faced her again.

"What?" her father said.

"I had a dream. I was in Deraqor and I'd… I'd won the city back for our family." She could see the bodies again, and the blood. She swallowed, forcing herself past the memory of that part of her dream.

"What made you think of Deraqor?"

"There's been pestilence there," she said. "Not in the city itself, but on the plain. The Fal'Borna. It's… They've suffered."

"That much I had heard." He shook his head. "That's a long way from here. I don't think we have anything to worry about."

"No, that's not…" She wasn't certain what she was trying to say. "I'd like to see it someday. Deraqor, I mean."

Jenoe nodded. "So would I. Good night, Tirnya."

"Good night."

Zira extinguished the oil lamps and they left her in the darkness.

Again Tirnya closed her eyes, and immediately she felt herself drifting toward sleep, slipping back into the dream. She heard the falcon calling to her from a distance. She could see the walls of her city. And though she feared seeing the blood and the bodies again, still she started up that street once more.