Clears the Path leads us.'
'Fine,' said Prae-Alan. The matter had already been discussed, and PraeAlan was simply glad that his own countrymen wouldn't be trying to kill him while he defended their borders. He didn't really care about anything else.
'But we will not forget this,' said another cell leader. 'We will not forget, and our reprisal, when it comes, will make you long for the days when Queen Mab was your chief concern.'
Raieve was sharpening her sword on a snakestone when Mauritane came for her. 'It's time,' he said. 'Our scouts tell us the Unseelie will be in place by dawn.'
Raieve nodded, running her thumb along the blade. 'There's no way we'll be in the City Emerald by First Lamb, even if we survive. This entire mission has been a waste of time for us.' She continued sharpening her blade.
'No,' said Mauritane, 'it brought us where we needed to be, when we needed to be there. And it's not First Lamb yet. Anything is yet possible.'
Raieve looked up at him. 'I can't say I agree with you,' she said.
The North Valley sat just north of Sylvan; its southern rim was a narrow strip that descended into the city on the far side. To the north, the Unseelie were waiting, hidden by the thick forest and the mist that spilled out from Sylvan. The predawn light glowed blue across the faces of the combined Seelie forces. The entire southern rim was a cacophony of shouted orders, neighing horses, and the chanting of the battle mages preparing their spells. Silver ground against sharpening stones and quarrels clicked into the notches of hundreds of crossbows.
Finally, the order to stand ready came, and the soldiers fell into place.
The first line was cavalry; each man on the line had been chosen from his company by the drawing of lots. Men from each division-chosen from the Seelie Army, the Royal Guard, and the rebels-stood at the ready.
Behind them were the battle mages. They stood slightly higher on the valley's edge, their spellcasting components surrounding them like miniature cities. The defensive mages had already begun chanting their shields, creating waves of purple light above the heads of the front line.
Next were the ground forces, the infantry. There were not enough swords to go around, so some of the men, mostly the rebels, carried axes, sledgehammers and clubs. Among them stood the crossbow archers, who would charge into battle among the infantry, their weapons effective only at very close range.
The longbowmen stood at the crest of the hill, the final wave of defense. There were no spell shields above their heads, which gave them room to fire but also left them vulnerable to overhead attack. They did not carry swords; if the battle were ever to reach them, it would already be over.
Mauritane, riding Streak, faced his army. Prae-Alan was at his left, Eloquet at his right, both on horseback.
'There are some who will say,' Mauritane began, 'that our shared desire for survival is all that brings us together here.' His voice was loud and strong; it carried all the way back to the archers. 'I believe that is only a small part of the truth. Within each of us is the heart of the Seelie; that great soul that gives action to our limbs, quickness to our minds, and the re to our magic. The heart of the Seelie was once pure. It can be pure again. Whether Aba judges us now in his heavenly chariot, or whether a man is alone with his own conscience in this life, we do not all agree. So be it. History will not judge us based on what we believed but rather how we acted when put to the test. So it is with Aba. So it is also with our conscience. This valley is not simply a battlefield; it is a crucible in which the heart of the Seelie will be placed under the pestle and ground beneath a heavy weight. If the Seelie heart is pure, it will not shatter or crumble. Instead, it will shatter the crucible, crumble the pestle that attempts to grind it.'
The men cheered, raising their swords to the sky.
'We shall take the day, not because we are stronger, though we are. Not because we are faster, or better trained, though those things are true as well. No, we shall take the day because we know that what lies to the south of this valley is worth defending. And what are we defending, exactly? Not the cities, for those will someday fall to the ground! Not the rocks, for those will erode over the centuries! Not even our own children or the children of our neighbors! They too will pass away and become dust. But the Seelie heart shall remain! It is eternal! And woe be unto those who think to squeeze it in their grasp. For what is eternal can never be crushed, can never die!'
The men cheered again with renewed vigor. Mauritane knew they would follow him into the jaws of death, and he was both infinitely grateful and infinitely sad that it was true.
'Now I give you your battle cry. The Seelie Heart!'
'The Seelie Heart!' they shouted back. 'The Seelie Heart!'
Across the valley there came a flash and a dull roar. The battle had begun. The Unseelie forces began to pour out of the woods, making their lines along the northern rim of the valley. Queen Mab rode before them, giving the army her benediction.
The battle mages cast their long-range missiles and wards, meeting the defenses and the magic-seeking projectiles of the Unseelie. Deafening explosions rocked the valley. Great clouds of green and blue mixed with the milkywhite fog. Bolts of silver lightning flashed back and forth so quickly that none but the mages could comprehend it. As they fought in the skies, the mages also battled in their minds, some of them falling to the ground, clutching their heads or their bellies, some of them bursting into flame.
The battle in the skies was decided in seconds. The Seelie had taken their first piece of the victory. The remote seers divined fifty Unseelie mages destroyed out of a potential hundred, whereas the Seelie had lost only twenty, and all of their defensive wards remained in place after the altercation.
Mauritane wheeled Streak and rode to the cavalry commander. 'Prepare your men. We ride at my signal!' He rode to the front of the line. In seconds the commander flashed the ready sign at him. Mauritane took a deep breath. 'Aba,' he whispered. 'If you are there, please be on our side.'
Mauritane held his sword aloft. The Seelie army fell silent. For a few seconds all that could be heard were the dying fires from the magic conflagration below and the rustle of impatient hooves.
Mauritane dropped the sword. 'The Seelie Heart!' he cried. They charged.
The fighting raged through the morning. Mauritane's archers took out fewer of the Unseelie cavalry than he'd hoped, and the mounted Seelie were forced to make up the difference in close combat. Swords flashed and crossbows cracked. As it had done so often before in battle, time disappeared for Mauritane. His mind entered a different place, where all he could see was the field around him. All he could hear were the reports of his subordinates. All he could think was strategy, motion, attack, withdraw, hold, advance. Faces blurred together; motions simplified and became geometric. Mauritane moved through the chaos, applying his blade when necessary, mostly giving orders.
There would be no retreat. If the Unseelie were to cross the valley into Sylvan, then they could launch their projectile bomb where there were no battle mages to pluck it from the sky. Mauritane had to assume that the weapon had survived the city's destruction-it would be foolish to assume otherwise.
As the sun moved across the valley, the Seelie forces advanced, inching across the basin's floor. Mauritane brooked no retreat, would not back down from the enemy. He led charge after charge into the thickest wedge of Unseelie troops, striking for the heart of their command. The Unseelie officers of the center column were forced to call continually for reinforcements, preventing their wings from flanking the Seelie either to the east or the west.
Mauritane fought, slashing and slashing, taking cuts and bruises, and once even a deep bite, forcing out the pain, keeping his thoughts only on forward motion. An Unseelie general fought near him for a while. They eyed each other over the riot of bodies and horses and blades. Soon they were face to face.
Mauritane watched the general come at him, placing a barrier of his own men between himself and Mauritane's remaining cavalry. They squared off. Mauritane glared at the man, passion and anger searing his mind.
The general raised his sword as if to charge. Mauritane steadied himself. Instead, though, the general produced a dagger in his left hand and whipped it not at Mauritane but at Streak. Mauritane felt the beast tense beneath him, then falter and fall to his side, nearly crushing Mauritane's leg. Mauritane rolled off of the animal and looked up, anticipating the general's next attack.
But the attack never came. The general had sheathed his weapon, laughing at Mauritane, and was now riding
