Stefen leapt from the cot, screaming Van's name - the Healer tried to hold him down, but he fought clear of the man, throwing the blankets aside in a frenzy of fear and grief.
He ran, out of the barracks, out into the snow, shoving people out of the way. He stumbled blindly to the stables and grabbed the first horse he saw that didn't shy away, saddling it with tack that seemed oddly familiar -
The filly snorted in his hair as he reached up to bridle her - and he recognized her. It was Melody -
But that didn't matter, all that mattered was the ache in his heart, in his soul, the empty place that said
He flung himself on Melody's back and spurred her cruelly as soon as he was in the saddle; she squealed in surprise and launched herself out of the stable door, as the Healers and sentries shouted after him, too late to stop him.
Days later, he came upon the battlefield, riding an exhausted horse, himself too spent to speak. The battle was long over; and still the carnage was incredible.
At the edge of camp, one of the Guardsmen stopped Melody with one hand on her bridle, and Stef didn't have the strength to urge her past him. He simply stared dully at the man, until someone else came-a Healer, and then someone in high-rank blue. He ignored the Healer, but the other got him to dismount.
The Commander, her face gray with fatigue, her eyes full of pain.
“I'm sorry, lad,” the Commander said, one arm around his shoulders. “I'm sorry. We were all too late to save him. He was-gone-before we ever got here. But ... I'd guess you know that. I'm sorry.”
The dam holding his emotions in check broke inside him, and he turned his face into her shoulder; she held him, as she must often have held others, and let him cry himself out, until he had no more tears, until he could scarcely stand. Then she helped him into her own tent, put him to bed on her own cot, and covered him with her own hands.
“Sleep, laddy,” she whispered hoarsely. “'Tain't a cure, but you need it. He'd tell you the same if -”
She turned away. He slept, though he didn't think he could; the mournful howls of
Candlemarks later, he woke. Another Guardsman sat on a stool next to the cot, keeping watch beside him.
He blinked, confused by his surroundings - then remembered.
“I want to see him,” he said, sitting up.
“Sir -” the Guardsman said hesitantly, “There ain't nothin' to see. We couldn't find a thing. Just - them. Lots of them.”
“Then I want to see where he was,” Stef insisted. “I have to - please -”
The Guardsman looked uncomfortable, but helped him up, led him out and supported him as he climbed back up the pass. Bodies were being collected and piled up to be burned; the stench and black smoke were making Stef sick, and there was blood everywhere. And at the narrowest point of the pass, where the mortuary crews hadn't even reached, it was even worse.
Stefen's escort tightened his grip suddenly and yelped, as a white-furred shape appeared beside them. Hyrryl's blue eyes spoke her sympathy wordlessly to Stefen, and he heard himself saying, “It's all right . . . they're friends,” as another fell in on his left - Aroon. The Guardsman swallowed, and they resumed their walk.
Blackened, burned, and mangled bodies were piled as many as three and four deep, and all of them wore ebony armor or robes. The carnage centered around one spot, a place clean of snow and dirt, scoured right down to the rock, with the stone itself polished black and shining. Hyrryl and Aroon took up positions on either side of the pass, and sat on their haunches, almost at attention, watching over the Bard. The Guardsman bowed and retreated wordlessly, and no one else came near.
Stef stumbled tear-blinded through the heaped bodies, looking for one - one White - clad amid all the black -
There was nothing, just as the Guardsman had told him. Stef shook his head, frantically, then began looking for anything, a scrap of white, anything at all.
