Weavers of War

Chapter Seven

Galdasten, Eibithar

It was a siege without blood, a war without swords, at least for the people of Galdasten. Bodies still washed ashore occasionally, bloated and foul, still held together by the purple and gold uniforms that bound them. Braedon’s men had recovered their own from the waters after the naval battle ended and Eibithar’s fleet, or what little was left of it, fled Falcon Bay. But they had left Eibithar’s dead to the surf.

It was but one indignity among many. The emperor’s men had set fire to much of the city before marching past the castle and on toward the Moorlands. Those soldiers who remained-perhaps six hundred-had garrisoned themselves in the few homes and buildings they left standing. They patrolled the city as if they owned it, enforcing a strict curfew, closing the taverns, taking the ale and food for themselves, and confiscating the wares of those peddlers foolish enough to enter Galdasten. They maintained a presence outside the walls of Galdasten Castle, but they needn’t have bothered. Renald, Galdasten’s duke, had no intention of challenging their supremacy within his city, nor had he shown any willingness to pursue the bulk of Braedon’s army, which had long since marched southward.

Pillad jal Krenaar, Galdasten’s first minister, felt certain that even as the men and women of the city took refuge in the wards of the duke’s castle, they cursed Renald’s name, seeing him as a traitor to his realm and his people. Had the minister been in their position, he would have done the same. He was just as certain that Renald suffered for his own compliance with the enemy. He seldom left his chambers, speaking only with the duchess, his swordmaster, and Pillad, who had managed at last to regain the trust of Galdasten’s Eandi leaders.

Pillad’s betrayal of the Qirsi barkeep in Galdasten City had been but the beginning of an ordeal he thought might end with his own execution. Indeed, had he known what his accusations against Mittifar jal Stek would do to his own life, he might never have made them in the first place. But on that day in Elined’s turn he hadn’t been thinking at all. He had been angry, still smarting from the humiliation of the tavern keeper’s refusal to serve him Thorald ale. He had also grown weary of being ignored, of being viewed by Qirsi and Eandi alike as useless. He was eager to reclaim his influence within Renald’s court, and he had known that by sacrificing Mittifar, like Pillad, a member of the Weaver’s conspiracy, he would enhance his own influence.

He had been pleased with himself when the duke’s men left the castle to arrest the man. When they returned empty-handed and reported to Renald that the tavern keeper was dead, Pillad felt his entire world shudder, as if Elined had pounded at Galdasten Tor with her mighty fist. The duchess accused him of being a liar and traitor, of arranging the tavern keeper’s murder in order to gain the duke’s trust while at the same time masking his own treachery. She even speculated that he had broken Mittifar’s neck himself, though this much Renald and his swordsmaster told her was impossible. Ewan Traylee pointed out that the tavern keeper had been too large and powerful for a man of Pillad’s stature to best in a physical fight, and the duke made it clear that Pillad didn’t possess shaping power. Still, the accuracy of her accusation left the first minister so badly shaken that he barely managed to speak in his own defense.

Yet what disturbed him even more than Elspeth’s allegations was the fact that Mittifar had been murdered. He never had any doubt that the conspiracy was responsible, which meant that they knew what Pillad had done before Renald’s soldiers reached the tavern, quite possibly before they even left the castle. There were other traitors in Galdasten, at least one of them in Renald’s court.

Having no proof that Pillad was a traitor, they could not imprison him. So it was that he was in his chamber two nights later when the Weaver came to him in a dream, incensed and bent on vengeance. Never before had the minister endured such torment, and he hoped that he would die rather than suffer it again. The man burned him with white-hot flames, blackening the flesh on Pillad’s chest and back. He broke the minister’s ribs one by one, healed them, then broke them again. And all the while he raged at him for his betrayal. Pillad couldn’t remember any of what the Weaver said, having heard the words through a blinding haze of agony, but he did recall that the Weaver understood why he had done it, and that he expected Pillad to regain Renald’s confidence eventually.

Pillad remembered something else from that night as well, a detail that reached him through the pain and terror and stuck in his mind long after he had awakened. All of the injuries dealt him by the Weaver were to his torso, where they would remain hidden from Galdasten’s Eandi. Even as he seethed, the Weaver recognized that Pillad had made himself valuable to the movement once more. Renald would turn to him again, would heed his advice and share with the minister his plans for answering the Braedony invasion. That must have been why the Weaver didn’t kill him, why, in fact, he mended all the wounds he inflicted on him. In the midst of his torture, this realization sustained Pillad, gave him strength he hadn’t known he possessed, served as a balm for his injuries. He mattered again. He had wondered for so long if he would.

The duke’s suspicions lingered for some time. Elspeth’s had yet to fade entirely. But finally, in only the last few days, the minister had been welcomed back into the court. There was never any formal acknowledgment of this; he received no apology from Renald for his lack of faith, nor did the duke even ask him to join his daily discussions with the swordmaster. Just the other morning, nearly a full turn after the tavern keeper’s death, Pillad was in Renald’s chambers answering yet another round of questions about Mittifar and what Pillad had seen in his visits to the White Wave. After perhaps an hour Ewan arrived to discuss military matters with the duke, as he did every day. On this morning, however, Renald did not ask the minister to leave. Instead he launched directly into his conversation with the swordmaster. Pillad’s exile was over.

That very night the Weaver came to him once again, and though Pillad’s climb to the plain where the man awaited him might have been somewhat more arduous than he recalled from previous dreams, nothing else about the encounter struck him as unusual. The Weaver asked him if Renald had come to trust him again, but clearly he knew the answer already. He asked about Renald’s plans, and he told the minister that the time was fast approaching when he would reveal himself to all the Forelands.

“I want Galdasten to be at war when I do,” he went on. “I want Renald and his army on the Moorlands, fighting the empire’s invaders. Can you convince your duke to ride to war?”

“I can, Weaver,” he said, knowing it was true. “Renald wants to fight. Every day that goes by with Braedon’s men in his city and the realm at risk, pains him. His swordmaster is much the same and will support me.”

“Good. Then I expect this will prove quite easy for you.”

“Not entirely. The duchess will oppose me.”

“The duchess?” He sounded genuinely surprised.

“Yes, Weaver. She holds sway in Renald’s court. If she can’t be convinced, Renald may resist.”

“See that he doesn’t.”

He knew better than to argue. If he failed the Weaver in this, his punishment would make their last encounter seem pleasant by comparison. “Of course, Weaver.”

“You possess healing and fire magics.”

“Yes, Weaver.”

“They’ll prove useful when our war begins. I’ll weave your fire with that of a hundred other Qirsi. Entire armies of Eandi soldiers will fall before you.”

Pillad had never considered himself a warrior, but he couldn’t deny that the idea of this thrilled him. “My magic is yours, Weaver.”

The following morning, the eighth of Adriel’s waxing, the minister made his way to the duke’s presence chamber intending to raise the matter immediately. When he arrived there, however, he found the duchess with Renald and Ewan.

“What is he doing here?” Elspeth asked, eyeing the minister warily as he stepped into the chamber.

Renald winced, but quickly gathered himself, saying, in a reasonably steady voice, “I asked him here.”

The duchess started to say something, then stopped herself, a thin smile flitting across her exquisite face. “I’m not certain that was wise, my lord. We don’t know yet that we can trust him.”

“I believe we can.”

Pillad could not remember ever hearing the duke speak so to his wife, and it made him all the more certain that he could be persuaded to march to war. By the same token, though, the minister decided then that he would not broach the matter that day, in Elspeth’s presence. Renald could only be expected to stand up to her so often before falling back into his usual submissiveness. In some respects Pillad and his duke were quite similar.

The minister sat near the chamber door, far from the duchess and from the duke as well. He merely listened as their discussion began slowly and soon foundered. Ewan spoke of his own frustration and that of his men, their eagerness to fight, and the suffering of Galdasten’s people under the authority of the empire.

Renald wore a pained expression and nodded his agreement several times, but he said little more than did Pillad. It fell to the duchess to answer the swordmaster’s plea for action, and she did so with no apology.

“There’s more at stake here than a warrior’s pride, swordmaster,” she said, sounding like a parent scolding a thoughtless child. “I’d have thought that you understood that by now. How long has it been since a man from Galdasten sat on the throne, Renald?”

She didn’t even look at him, and still the duke quailed, his normally ruddy face turning pale. “Nearly a century.”

“Nearly a century,” she repeated. “And it’s been more than three hundred and fifty years since anyone challenged Thorald’s supremacy under the Rules of Ascension. We seek to change the course of history. We cannot rush this.”

“And what of the people, my lady?”

There could be no denying Ewan’s nerve.

“That they suffer is regrettable,” she said, without any trace of regret. “But always there is a price for such momentous change.”

That ended their discussion. The duke asked his swordmaster a few questions about the castle’s stores and readiness of the army should the time to march come soon, but within a few moments Ewan had stood and crossed to the door, clearly troubled by what the duchess had said.

Pillad stood as well, intending to leave with him. Perhaps if they worked together, they might more easily convince the duke to oppose his wife.

“Stay a moment, won’t you, First Minister?”

He turned. Elspeth was eyeing him as a spider might regard a newly caught fly. “Of course, my lady.”

She stood and began to pace as Ewan left the chamber. “You disagree with me,” she said.

“I do, my lady.”

“Why?”

“Because I believe that the conspiracy was responsible for Lady Brienne’s death, and I fear that the duke is mistaken in opposing the king. I fear for the realm, indeed for all the Forelands.”

She raised an eyebrow. Apparently she hadn’t expected him to speak against the conspiracy so forcefully. “So you believe that the Qirsi plot is connected in some way to the empire’s invasion?”

“I believe it’s possible. The barkeep in Galdasten City saw me in his establishment every day for more than a turn, but he didn’t offer me gold or speak to me of the conspiracy until after Braedon’s ships had appeared in Falcon Bay.” He shrugged, pleased with himself. “That isn’t proof, of course, but it does make me wonder.”

“I see.” She continued to circle the chamber, as if lost in thought. After a time, she glanced at Pillad again. “That’s all, First Minister. You may go.”

He cast a look at the duke, who gave a small nod and, Pillad thought, the barest hint of a smile. Offering a quick bow, he left them.

Over the course of the next few days, Pillad met with the duke several times, but always with Elspeth present. It almost seemed that she was afraid to allow them to speak in private. Their discussions covered little that was new, while avoiding any mention of the war being fought on the Moorlands. For all Pillad knew, the duke was receiving daily reports on the fighting to the south, but Renald didn’t speak of them.

Finally, on this, the thirteenth day of the waxing, Pillad arrived at Renald’s chamber to find that the duchess was not yet there. While still in the corridor he had heard Ewan’s voice, though he had been unable to make out any of what the swordmaster said, and with two guards standing by the door, he didn’t dare try to listen. Once he saw that the two men were alone, he had a good idea of what the swordmaster had been saying.

“Come in, First Minister,” Renald said, waving him into the chamber and then pointing to an empty chair.

“Are you certain I’m not interrupting, my lord?”

“Not at all. The swordmaster has been telling me once more that it’s time we joined the fighting.”

He didn’t even have to raise the subject himself. The gods were with him.

“You know where I stand on the matter, my lord.”

“Yes, I believe I do. You weren’t swayed by what the duchess said the other day?”

“I’m certain you would make a fine king, my lord,” he said, speaking carefully. “And I think it possible that the situation on the Moorlands is already desperate enough that your arrival there will save the realm, placing you in a position to demand the crown. But I fear that if you wait too long in the hope of positioning yourself to be king, there will be no realm left for you to rule.”

“Exactly!” Ewan said, sitting forward so suddenly that he nearly propelled himself out of his chair.

“We always knew that I would have to strike a fine balance,” the duke said. “Els- The duchess merely wishes to make certain that we succeed.”

“If I may, my lord,” Pillad said. “Such considerations ought to be secondary. Your people are suffering. The city of your forebears is overrun with the emperor’s soldiers. You should strike at them, drive them back to their ships. If you take the crown, so be it. But the time has come to act like a king.”

As soon as he spoke the words, Pillad feared that he had gone too far. But Renald merely sighed, running a hand through his fiery hair.

“You’re right, of course. But the duchess-”

The door opened.

“What about me?” She stood in the doorway, wearing a gown of red that nearly matched the duke’s hair, her dark eyes flitting from Renald to Ewan to Pillad, and then back to the duke. She stepped into the chamber and closed the door. “Well? What were you saying about me, Renald?”

The duke stood. Pillad could see his hands trembling, but the duke still held himself straight. “I was saying that you still wish to wait before sending the army south. And I was going to add that I think you’re mistaken, and that I intend to strike at the emperor’s men come morning.”

“I knew it,” she said, her voice heavy with contempt. She turned to glare at Pillad. “I knew that you’d turn him against me at the first opportunity.”

Ewan stood as well. “Actually, my lady, I was the one who began this discussion. The first minister came in later and only added to what I had been saying all along.”

“Then you’re all fools. And my husband is the biggest fool of all, for listening to you.”

“Oh, Elspeth, be quiet.”

Her cheeks colored as if he had slapped her, but after only a moment, she smiled. Clearly it was forced, a mask for her rage and humiliation, but it seemed as natural on her features as any smile Pillad had ever seen there. “Fine, Renald. If you wish to strengthen Glyndwr’s hold on the throne, and destroy any hope we might have had of ending the Rules of Ascension, so be it. I’ll not have any more to do with you.”

The duke gave a curt nod. “Very well. As you pass the guards on your way out, please tell them that we’re not to be disturbed. We have preparations to make.”

She glowered at them all, the muscles in her jaw clenched. Then she whirled away from them, flung the door open, and stormed from the chamber, saying nothing to the soldiers as she strode past them.

For several seconds, none of the men spoke. They didn’t even move. Pillad and Ewan were both watching the duke, wondering whether he would go after her. But at last, he merely stepped to the door, closed it quietly, and turned to face them. He still appeared to be shaking, but he looked pleased with himself, as if he had just come through a sword fight unscathed.

“We have a great deal to discuss,” he said. “I want Braedon’s men out of my city, but I don’t wish to spend too much time driving them off, and we can’t afford to lose many men. Suggestions?”

Ewan was grinning now-it almost seemed that he, too, had won a battle of sorts. “Yes, my lord,” he said. “I’ve given this a good deal of thought.”

Pillad had no doubt that this was so.

* * *

Renald knew that he would pay a price for what he had done this day. One did not spurn Elspeth, lady of Prindyr, duchess of Galdasten, as he had done, without inviting her wrath. For a time, she would refuse to speak to him at all, and after that she would take to insults, small barbs cast at him in front of his soldiers, his advisors, noble guests of the castle. The affections she had shown him in recent days were now forfeit. She would not share his bed again for some time, if ever. She might even seek to turn their sons against him, telling the boys that his cowardice and folly had cost them their chance to sit on the Oaken Throne. Elspeth had always been a proud woman, and today Renald had dealt her pride a blow. She would be slow to forgive; she would never forget.

The duke, however, didn’t care. He would not go so far as to blame his wife for the humiliation of Galdasten’s people or the damage to the realm done by his own timidity. She had urged this course of action, but he was duke, and he had made the decision not to oppose Braedon’s invasion. She had preyed on his ambition, as well as on his fear of her, and he had allowed her to have her way. Ashamed as he was of what he had become, Renald would accept responsibility for it, not only in his own mind, but also when it came time to face Kearney. The hour was late, but at last he was ready to comport himself as befitted a duke.

And it pleased him to do so. Merely sitting in his presence chamber, speaking with Ewan and Pillad of military tactics, he felt more like the leader of a great house than he had in many turns. Yes, he feared death. He would be as scared riding to this war as any boy newly enlisted in the Galdasten army. But there was some satisfaction to be found in that fear. Even the most frightened soldier marching to war was less a coward than the man who did nothing while his realm burned. Renald would endure Elspeth’s contempt, he would explain to his sons that ambition and duty to one’s realm were not always compatible, that honor should mean more to a man than should power. He didn’t want the crown-not this way. As to the rest, he thought with some chagrin, he would have to get used once more to bedding serving girls and ladies of the court.

It became clear from the very start of their discussion that the swordmaster had spent days thinking of how they might break Braedon’s hold on Galdasten City. Ewan believed that under cover of a fierce assault from Galdasten’s archers, several large raiding parties could leave the castle by way of the sally ports and strike at the Braedony soldiers who were camped outside its gates. Once they were defeated-and the swordmaster didn’t believe that would take long-Renald could send the full force of his army into the city to drive the invaders back to their ships.

Ewan actually believed that the duke’s reluctance to act before now would work to their advantage.

“They’ve grown lax, my lord. They don’t expect you to do anything.”

The irony wasn’t lost on any of them.

“No doubt generations from now, my descendants will celebrate the brilliance of our strategy.”

Pillad grinned. “No doubt, my lord.”

“Prepare your soldiers, swordmaster.”

“My lord, I would suggest that we wait until dawn. If we do it in the middle of the day, Braedon’s men will have little trouble spotting the soldiers leaving the castle by way of the sally ports.”

“What about dusk? The light will be more favorable then.”

“Aye, my lord, dusk might be better for the initial assault. But if we wait until dawn-”

“I don’t want to wait another night. We’ll strike at dusk. Ready your men, swordmaster.”

Ewan frowned, but stood. “Yes, my lord. I’ll begin preparations immediately.”

“Very good. Keep me informed of your progress.”

Ewan bowed and hurried from the chamber, leaving Renald alone with his first minister. Renald had convinced himself that Pillad served him loyally, seeing Elspeth’s suspicions of the man as another of her ploys. The minister advocated going to war, and so she accused him of treason hoping that this would keep Renald from heeding his counsel. Yet, though certain of this, he couldn’t help but feel discomfited being alone with the Qirsi. He tried to tell himself that it had always been this way, that the white-hairs were strange, their powers unfathomable. Who among the Eandi enjoyed being around them? But he knew that there was more to his uneasiness. Try as he might to put the doubts out of his mind, he could not help but wonder if the man had betrayed him.

“Perhaps I should leave you, my lord.”

Could he read Renald’s mind? Did Qirsi magic run that deep?

“As you wish, First Minister,” he said, struggling to keep his voice steady. “We have much to do in the next few hours.”

“Yes, my lord.” He pushed himself out of his chair.

“Do any of the other Qirsi in the castle have mists and winds?”

“I’m not sure, my lord. I would doubt it. It’s one of the deeper magics and not terribly common.”

“Ah, well. I was merely curious. I take it you’ll be helping the healers.”

“As you wish, my lord. Though I had thought that I would stay with you. You may wish for my counsel when the fighting begins.”

“Yes, of course. I haven’t decided yet if I’ll be joining the fighting when it comes time to take back the city.”

“Even then, my lord, I’m willing to go into battle with you.” He smiled. “I’m not much of a swordsman, but I ride well, and I might be of some use in a fight.”

Renald forced a smile in return. “I’m sure you’ll do just fine, First Minister. I’ll let you know what I decide to do myself, and what I expect of you.”

The Qirsi’s pale eyes narrowed for just a moment, his smile fading. Then he nodded. “Of course, my lord. I think I understand.” He started toward the door.

The duke knew that he should let the man go, that he should end this awkwardness before one of them said something foolish. But he couldn’t stop himself. “What is it you think you understand, Pillad?”

The minister halted just a step or two from the door. He kept his back to the duke, taking a long breath. “Forgive me, my lord. I shouldn’t have said anything.”

“But you did.”

Pillad turned at that. “Yes, I did. I sense that you still don’t trust me entirely. I wonder if you don’t want me riding to battle with you because you fear I might make an attempt on your life.”

“The conspiracy has disturbed us all a great deal, First Minister. The death of the tavern keeper only served to heighten our fears. I find it hard to believe that he was the only traitor in Galdasten, which would mean that there are still Qirsi in this city, perhaps in this castle, who wish to do me harm.”

“I’m certain that you’re right, my lord. But to my mind that makes those of us you know you can trust all the more valuable.”

“That may be so, but it also makes the task of distinguishing loyal Qirsi from traitorous ones that much more daunting. Surely you can appreciate that.”

“Yes, my lord. As always I’ll serve as you see fit. If that means remaining with the healers, so be it. I’ll await word of your decision.” With that, he bowed and let himself out of the chamber.

Renald didn’t know what to think. For just an instant he considered going after the minister, and saying that he wanted to ride with him into battle. But he couldn’t help wondering if that was just what Pillad wanted him to do, if the Qirsi’s words and bearing had been intended to produce just such a response. What scared the duke most was that in the past he had relied on Elspeth to help him make such judgments.

Unable to find any humor at all in this irony, the duke left his chamber and went in search of Ewan. Better to help the swordmaster with his preparations than sit alone in his chamber with his doubts and fears.

* * *

By the time the prior’s bells began to toll in the city, Renald’s archers were ready. They remained in the castle wards, where the enemy soldiers couldn’t see them. Only when the sunlight began to fail would they climb the towers to the ramparts. Standing together in the courtyards, their quivers full, many of them testing the tension of the bows for the tenth time, they reminded the duke of boys awaiting the start of their first battle tournament. Clearly they had been hoping for this moment, eager for a chance to strike at the invaders who had taken their city. Renald heard more laughter in those hours before dusk than he had in the last turn and a half. It lightened his spirit, gave him hope that they might really succeed in breaking the empire’s hold on Galdasten.

At one point, gazing up at the windows overlooking the upper ward, he thought he saw Elspeth. But when he looked again, no one was there, and he was left to wonder if he had only imagined her face in the late-day sun.

When at last the sky began to darken, Ewan ordered the archers onto the walls, imploring them to take their positions with as little noise as possible. He also sent his raiding parties to the castle’s sally ports, instructing them to wait just inside the hidden gates until they heard the bells ringing in the cloister tower. That would be their signal to attack.

Convinced that all was ready, Renald and the swordmaster climbed the nearest of the stairways to the turret atop one of the towers, where they could watch the battle unfold without getting in the way of Ewan’s bowmen.

The sky above the tower had deepened to a dark velvet blue, and the western horizon glowed brightly, the thin clouds over the North Wood touched with yellow and orange and pink. There was still enough light to see-Renald could make out the soldiers standing at the base of the castle, leaning against siege engines that had seen little use in the past half turn. From the beginning, it had seemed that Braedon’s men had known Galdasten wouldn’t oppose them. They had prepared for an assault on the gates, but had done nothing more, as if believing that the mere threat of attack would be enough to keep Renald from fighting back.

And for too long it had worked.

“Give the order, swordmaster. I grow tired of seeing the emperor’s men on my soil.”

Ewan grinned. “With pleasure, my lord.”

He took a torch from a bracket on the stone wall beside them, raised it over his head, then brought it down in a chopping motion. Immediately, two hundred archers stepped forward to the outer wall, arrows already nocked in their bows, and let their darts fly, the thrum of their bowstrings echoing off the castle walls like the roar of some great strange beast from the Underrealm. Screams rose from below, cries of alarm and rage filled the lanes surrounding the castle. Ewan raised and lowered his torch again, and the archers loosed a second volley.

More shouts reached them from the streets, repeated now farther off, as word of what was happening spread toward the piers. Ewan turned toward the cloister tower and swept his torch back and forth. A moment later the bells began to toll, and an instant after that, a different kind of cry arose from the soldiers around the castle. In just a few seconds Renald heard the clash of steel on steel, the urgent calls of men doing battle.

His eyes were adjusting to the evening light, but the shadows at the base of the castle walls were deepening. He couldn’t tell who had the upper hand. In just a few moments, however, he saw men retreating down the lanes that led to the port, and he knew that the invaders had been driven off. The men below gave a ragged cheer that was repeated by Ewan’s archers.

“Well done, swordmaster!” Renald said over the din, clapping the man on the shoulder.

It was not something the duke would normally have done, and Ewan gave him a strange look. “This is only a small victory, my lord. Braedon’s men gave up too quickly. No doubt they’ve simply gone to join their comrades in the city. They haven’t been beaten yet. Far from it.”

“I know that,” the duke said, forcing a smile so the swordmaster wouldn’t see how much the words had sobered him. “Still, I’m pleased. Surely this is a good beginning.”

“Yes, my lord, I believe it is.” He looked down at the city again, seeming to mark the progress of the retreating soldiers. “We have to choose now, my lord. Do we wait until morning to attack their strongholds in the city, or do we pursue them immediately?”

Renald stared at him a moment, suddenly out of his depth. “I’m … I’m not certain. What would you do?”

“Well, on the one hand, we would do well to attack before they have a chance to marshal their defenses. On the other hand, they’re already entrenched in the city, and with night falling, they have the advantage of being able to conceal themselves more easily. If we attack, our men may be rushing headlong into a trap.”

The duke felt his face coloring. He had pushed to begin all this sooner. Had he been willing to wait for daybreak, there would be no question as to what they should do.

“Our men know the city, swordmaster,” he said, trying to sound confident. “Braedon’s soldiers may be established there now, but the city has been home to many of our warriors since they were children. I believe we can pursue them now without placing the men in too much danger.”

“Very well, my lord.” He nodded once-it took Renald a moment to recognize it as a bow-and started to walk away.

Is that what you would have done? he wanted to ask. Am I doing the right thing? But he didn’t dare show the man how uncertain he was, how ill-equipped to be leading this army to war. And then a thought came to him, one that turned his innards to water and nearly made his knees buckle. He would be leading this charge into the city. How could he not? He almost ran after the swordmaster to tell him that he had changed his mind, that they would wait for daybreak. But did he really want to lead a charge into an ordered defense, one that the emperor’s captains had all night to plan?

Ean have pity, what have I done?

“Are you well, my lord?”

Renald turned so quickly that he nearly lost his balance. Pillad was standing just beside him, having snuck up on him like a cat stalking prey.

“Yes, I’m fine,” the duke said, a bit too quickly.

“You look pale, my lord.”

“A trick of the light, no doubt. As I said, I’m fine.” He had no desire to be anywhere near this man just now. “We ride into battle within the hour. We’ll be attacking the Braedony strongholds in the city. I want you with the healers. I’m sure they’re already tending to the men who were wounded in our first assault. You should find them now.”

“But, my lord-”

“You’ll have an opportunity to ride with me when we go south to the Moorlands. Right now I want you with the healers. Do I make myself clear?”

“Of course, my lord.” The Qirsi bowed, his expression revealing little. He looked like he might say more, but instead he withdrew, descending the tower stairs.

Renald intended to go that same way, but he waited until he was certain that Pillad had reached the bottom of the winding stairway. He could feel some of the archers watching him, but he kept his eyes fixed on the city. When he finally left the ramparts, he welcomed the solitude of the tower stairs as he would rain on a sweltering day. He had to resist an urge to leave the stairs at the castle’s second level and take to his quarters until the fighting was over. Reaching the bottom of the stairs, he stepped into the ward and was greeted by a sight that did little to calm his nerves.

The wounded had been brought back into the castle and placed on pallets in the ward, where the Qirsi healers were now ministering to their wounds. Pillad was among the healers, looking slightly lost, and flinching at much of what he saw.

The duke hurried past, keeping his eyes trained on the ground. Still, he could hear the moans and cries of the injured men, and he nearly gagged on the smell of the herbmaster’s tonics and poultices. When at last he entered the lower ward, he rested, leaning against the stone wall and trying to slow his pulse. Nearby, the people of his city, who had been driven from their homes, eyed him with curiosity, and, he thought, some contempt. He tried to ignore them, and when he couldn’t, he started across the ward. At the far end of the courtyard, near the main gate, Ewan was mustering his soldiers, barking commands and sending his captains scurrying in all directions. He didn’t stop when he saw the duke, but he did stride in Renald’s direction, even as he continued to yell at his men.

Stopping beside the duke, he asked in a low voice, “Is everything all right, my lord?”

For a moment, Renald considered telling the swordmaster that he had decided to put off the assault until dawn, but he wasn’t any more certain about the wisdom of that course of action than he was about the one they were on already.

“I was going to ask you the same,” he said at last.

“My lord?”

“I sensed before, on the ramparts, that you preferred to wait for dawn. If you feel strongly that we should, I’ll heed your counsel.”

Ewan turned his back on the soldiers. “Please turn as well, my lord. I don’t want the men to know what we’re saying.”

Renald turned, feeling somewhat foolish standing shoulder to shoulder with the swordmaster, facing the castle wall.

“If you’re at all uncertain, my lord, we shouldn’t attack. The men will sense it, and their confidence will suffer.”

Of course I’m uncertain! I don’t know what I’m doing! “I merely meant to ask if you disagree with my decision.”

“It’s not my place to disagree.”

“Well, damn it, I’m making it your place!” The duke winced at what he heard in his voice. “Forgive me, Ewan. I don’t … I don’t have a great deal of experience with such matters.”

“None of us do, my lord. But we’ve begun to ready the men. To change our tactics now would be to put doubts in their minds. I’d rather not do that.”

“So we march tonight.”

“I believe we should.”

“Very well.”

“Is there anything else, my lord?”

“The archers are still atop the walls. Shouldn’t they be marching with us?”

“I thought to leave them on the battlements, my lord. I’m having oil and tar brought to them now. In case the empire’s men circle behind us and try to take the castle, I want the archers ready. I’ve instructed them to fire flaming arrows in case of attack. That will alert us to the danger, and we can return here and see to the defense of the fortress.”

Renald regarded the man, not bothering to mask his admiration. “Very impressive, swordmaster. Very impressive indeed.”

“Thank you, my lord. Now if I may return to the men, I’ll have them ready to march within the hour.”

True to his word, Ewan and his soldiers were ready to march from the castle just as the bells rang in the city’s Sanctuary of Amon, marking what would have been the gate close had the Braedony army not held all the city gates. Renald and the swordmaster sat atop mounts at the head of the column, and now the duke raised his sword, silencing his men.

“I know that you’ve waited a long time for this night,” he said, his voice echoing off the stone walls. “Believe it or not, so have I. We fight for our people, for our city, for our realm. Let the men of Braedon learn the peril of awakening the Galdasten eagle! Let them feel the bite of our steel and rue the day they set foot on our hallowed land! Let them scurry to their ships like vermin and leave these shores forever!” He reared his mount, holding his sword high again. “For Galdasten!” he cried.

And his men called out as one, “For Galdasten!” the might of their voices threatening to topple the castle. Even the city folk cheered.

Renald felt a chill go down his spine, and he wished that Elspeth could have seen him, armed, astride his horse, leading these fine men to war. The thought was fleeting, however, replaced as they rode through the castle gate and into the lane leading down to the city, by the same debilitating fear he had felt earlier, atop the walls.

“Well done, my lord,” Ewan said, his voice low.

Renald merely nodded, unable to speak.

“Stay close to me, my lord, and together we’ll see this enemy defeated. I’ll do all I can to keep you safe.”

At that, he glanced at the man, a grateful smile on his lips. “Thank you, Ewan.”

They rode slowly, keeping pace with the soldiers, who were on foot. Still, it wasn’t long-not nearly long enough, as far as the duke was concerned-before they were in the heart of the city, making their way past a burned-out smithy and a tavern that seemed eerily quiet. The marketplace was completely empty, save for a stray dog that sniffed about for scraps of food. They saw no signs at all of the enemy.

Ewan had appeared composed as they approached the city, but once on its lanes, he had grown increasingly tense. He was frowning now, shaking his head.

“I don’t like this at all,” he said under his breath. Renald wondered if he was keeping his voice down for the sake of his men, or to keep the empire’s soldiers from overhearing. “We should have seen them by now.”

“You’ve said all along that you were surprised they left so few men in the city. Perhaps they saw how large a force we brought, and retreated to their ships.”

“I suppose it’s possible,” the swordmaster said, but Renald could tell that he didn’t really believe this, that he was merely humoring the duke. He continued to glance about anxiously, as if expecting an attack at any moment.

In the next instant it came. An arrow buried itself in Ewan’s shoulder, tearing a gasp from the man. Before the duke had time to act a second barb hit Renald in the thigh, the pain stealing his breath. An instant later, arrows were whistling all around them. It was as if they had disturbed a nest of hornets.

“Shields!” the swordmaster roared through clenched teeth. “Take cover!”

The men broke formation, scattering in all directions. And even as the arrows continued to fly, Renald heard the ring of steel and saw that the enemy had been waiting for his army to do just this. Abruptly he was surrounded by a melee. Everywhere he looked, men were fighting and falling. Soldiers in Braedon’s gold and red pressed toward him, and he hacked at them with his blade, making his horse rear again and again so as to keep them at a distance. Ewan battled as best he could, though he had taken the arrow in the right shoulder and so was forced to fight with his weaker hand.

Another arrow struck the duke’s shield and others streaked past him, making him cringe repeatedly. He would have liked to jump off his horse-as it was he presented Braedon’s bowmen with an inviting target-but he didn’t dare descend into the maelstrom of steel and flesh that swirled all around him. All he could do was fight, clinging desperately to his mount with his legs, the wound in his thigh screaming agony, his back and buttocks aching, his sword arm flailing at the enemy time and again until the muscles in his shoulder seemed to be aflame. Time came to be measured by the rise and fall of his blade. He thought nothing of the realm or the throne or the renegade Qirsi. He cared only for his own survival, not for years to come, nor even for this night, but for each moment as it passed. Would he live long enough to kill this man in gold and red who sought to pull him off his mount? Would he survive the next volley of Braedony arrows? Would the next pulse of anguish from his leg make him fall to the street?

He had thought to lead Galdasten’s army into battle, but there was nothing for him to do other than live and fight; there was no command he could give, no plan he could follow. All around him, men fought and died. They would decide the outcome of this conflict; in pairs and skirmishes they would write the history of Galdasten’s war. Even in pain, in battle fury, in this madness that passed for war, Renald had the sense to see that it had always been thus, that his forebears who claimed war’s glory as their own had done little more than live to declare victory. The realization sobered and humbled him, made his struggle more bearable even as it forced him to admit that its outcome mattered little. And still he fought on.

After a time that shaded toward eternity, it occurred to the duke that there were fewer men around him, that he had more room in which to turn his mount, and that the clashing of swords and cries of dying soldiers had somewhat abated.

Ewan was still beside him, his face damp with sweat, his skin ashen and his lips shading to blue. The arrow was still in his shoulder and a second jutted from his right side, blood staining his shirt of mail. His grey eyes had a glazed look to them, and yet he continued to fight, turning his horse in circles, looking for more of the enemy to strike.

“Swordmaster!” Renald called. And when the man stared back at him, seeming not to recognize his face, he said, “Ewan.”

The man blinked and looked at him again, tottering in his saddle. “My lord,” he said, his voice weary and hoarse.

“You need a healer.”

“No, my lord. I’m all right.”

“I think it’s ending. I can’t tell who’s won, but the fighting appears to have ebbed.”

Ewan glanced up and down the street, nodding. He sat a bit straighter in his saddle, the color returning to his cheeks. It almost seemed that he drew strength from the mere suggestion that the fighting might be over. “We’ve won.”

“You know this?”

The swordmaster faced him again. “You and I are alive. We wouldn’t be if your army had been defeated.”

Indeed, the arrows had stopped flying, and now soldiers began to wander back into the lane, all of them wearing the bronze and black of Galdasten. One of the captains approached Renald and the swordmaster, a deep gash on his upper arm, and several smaller ones on his face, hands, and neck.

Ewan sheathed his sword, grimacing at even this small movement. “Report,” he said.

“Most of the enemy are dead, sir. Those who still live have fled to their ships. Some of our men pursued them-there’s still fighting at the piers.”

“And our losses?”

“I don’t know for certain yet. If I had to guess, I’d say several hundred, but fewer than half.”

“All right, Captain. Go back to the piers. Tell the men there to let the rest go. We’ve won already; I don’t want to lose any more men. Then get yourself to a healer.”

“Yes, sir.” He looked at the duke and bowed. “For Galdasten, my lord.”

Renald nodded. “Thank you, Captain.”

“You need a healer, too, my lord,” Ewan said, as the man walked back toward the quays.

“No more than you do.”

“Shall we go together, then?”

“That would be fine. Pillad can minister to us both.”

Ewan grimaced again. It took Renald a moment to realize that he was grinning. “Yes, my lord.”

They found a soldier who had come through the fighting relatively unscathed and sent him back to the castle to fetch the healers.

“Assuming that your captain was right,” the duke said after the man had gone, “and that we lost several hundred men, how long will it be before we can march to the Moorlands?”

“It depends upon how many men you wish to take, my lord. If you’ll be satisfied to take seven or eight hundred, we can leave in three days. Perhaps two, if the quartermaster works quickly.”

“Then let’s plan on that.” Renald glanced down at the arrow protruding from his thigh. His leggings were soaked with blood, and the wound throbbed mercilessly. He could hardly believe that he was already contemplating his next battle, but what choice did he have? For better or worse, at long last, he had become a warrior.