of the Curgh army and also commanded five hundred men of the King’s Guard, the duke had been alarmed by his army’s showing during their brief encounter with the enemy. A number of his men had been wounded. Qirsi healers had little trouble mending most of their injuries, but Curgh’s soldiers should have fared better.
Still, even under these extraordinary circumstances, Javan had clearly been pleased to see his son; Tavis, in turn, had been surprised by how happy he was to be with his father again. Theirs had never been an easy relationship, even before the brutal murder of Tavis’s promised bride, Lady Brienne of Kentigern, and the young lord’s imprisonment in Kentigern. Tavis hadn’t been certain how the duke would receive him. But Javan had openly welcomed both Grinsa and the boy, and Kearney had done much the same.
The soldiers of the King’s Guard, however, had made it clear from the moment Tavis and Grinsa joined them that they still considered the young lord a murderer who had lost all claim to nobility. Since his arrival, they had offered naught but glares and vile comments uttered just loud enough for Tavis to hear. The boy had thought, or at least hoped, that once he proved his innocence their hostility toward him would abate. But though Cresenne ja Terba had confessed to hiring an assassin to kill Brienne, and Tavis had managed to kill that assassin on the shores of Wethyrn’s Crown, little had changed.
“It’s going to take them some time,” Grinsa had whispered that first day, as they rode past the soldiers, Tavis’s face burning as if it had been branded. “Not all of them will have heard yet that you killed the assassin, and even after they do, some of them will never accept your innocence.”
Tavis had simply nodded, unable to bring himself to speak.
Curgh’s men had been far more welcoming. As word of his encounter with the assassin, Cadel, spread through his father’s army, men began to treat him like a hero, a conquering lord returning to his homeland. This made Tavis nearly as uncomfortable as the rage he saw on the faces of Kearney’s men. He had been fortunate to survive his battle with Cadel, and the man had been defenseless when Tavis killed him.
Still, despite all of this, he was glad to be with his father again, and also with Hagan and Xaver MarCullet, and Fotir jal Salene, his father’s first minister. For a year he had been an exile, denied the comfort of his friends and family, denied the right to claim his place as a noble in the House of Curgh. Now his life as a fugitive was over. He had told Javan all that he could remember of his final encounter with the assassin, and though he knew that many in the realm might be slow to believe him when finally his story was told to all, he had no doubt that his father did. He longed to see his mother, to set foot once more in the castle of his forebears, but already he felt that this was a homecoming of sorts.
Just as Tavis’s father had expected, the Braedon attack, brief as it was, had taken a heavy toll on Heneagh’s army. At least two dozen men lay dead in the long grass; most of them bore ugly, bloody wounds. Nearly three times that number had been injured. Already healers were tending to them, but Tavis could see immediately that they had need for more.
“Go to the Curgh camp,” Javan told the nearest of Heneagh’s uninjured men. “Tell them to send all our healers.”
“What of the king’s healers?” the man asked.
“Curgh’s should be enough. Go. Quickly.” As the man ran back toward the Curgh lines, Javan surveyed the Heneagh army, shielding his eyes with an open hand. “Where is Welfyl?” he muttered.
“You don’t suppose he fell in the battle.”
The duke glanced at his son. “He shouldn’t have been anywhere near the battle.” He made a sour face. “He shouldn’t be here at all.”
Welfyl was by far the oldest of Eibithar’s dukes. Indeed, he came to power the same year Aylyn the Second, Kearney’s predecessor, began his reign as king of the realm. Javan, Tavis knew, had always liked Heneagh’s duke, but there could be no denying the fact that the man was simply too old to be riding to war. He was frail and bent- Tavis wondered if he could even raise a sword, much less fight with one. But he had led his army to the Moorlands, and unless the king said otherwise, he would lead them into battle.
“My lord, look.” Fotir was pointing farther west, his white hair gleaming in the sun, his bright yellow eyes seeming to glow like coals in a fire.
Following the direction of his gaze, Tavis saw the old duke kneeling in the grass, cradling a man in his arms, a stricken expression on his bony face.
Kicking at his mount, Javan rode toward the man, Tavis and the others following close behind.
“Get a healer!” the old duke cried as they drew nearer. “He’s dying!”
It was true. Even Tavis, who knew little of such things, could see that the man in Welfyl’s arms had lost too much blood. He had a deep gash on the side of his neck, and another that had nearly severed his leg just above the knee. Blood pulsed weakly from both wounds and already the man’s uniform was soaked crimson, as was the duke’s.
“More healers are on the way,” Javan said, dismounting and crouching beside Welfyl. “I’ve sent for all the Qirsi who accompanied my army.”
“Can you help him?” the duke asked Fotir, seeming to ignore Javan. “Please.”
Fotir looked pained as he shook his head. “I haven’t that power, Lord Heneagh. I’m sorry.”
It had to be Welfyl’s son. Looking at the face of the wounded man, Tavis saw that he had the duke’s nose and chin. The man’s hair was yellow, rather than white, and his face was fuller than Welfyl’s, but the resemblance was strong. He glanced back at Grinsa and read desperate frustration in his friend’s eyes. No doubt he wanted to try to heal the man, but couldn’t without giving away who and what he was.
A moment later, one of Heneagh’s Qirsi arrived, breathless, her cheeks flushed.
“Ean be praised,” the duke said, looking up at her. “Save him! I beg you!”
She frowned. “I’ll do what I can, my lord.”
Javan placed a hand on Welfyl’s shoulder. “Perhaps we should leave them-”
“No!” The duke seemed to tighten his hold on the man.
“Your healer will do all she can for him.”
“I’m not leaving him!”
Javan gave a low sigh and nodded. “Very well.” Straightening, he stepped away a short distance, gesturing for his company to follow.
“He won’t make it,” Hagan said, his voice low.
“Probably not.” Javan closed his eyes and ran a hand over his face. “Damn.”
“That’s his son, isn’t it?” Tavis said, careful to keep his voice down as well.
Javan eyed him briefly, then nodded. “Dunfyl, thane of Cransher. He’s a good man, and a fine warrior.”
“Why isn’t he duke?”
Tavis’s father looked over his shoulder, as if to make certain that Welfyl couldn’t hear, then he walked a bit farther from where the thane lay dying. “That’s a good question. The two of them had a falling-out many years back-I never learned what caused it. But Welfyl is given to pride, and the son doesn’t step far from his father’s shadow. For years they didn’t even speak to each other. To be honest, I never thought I’d see the day when they rode together to battle. It seems they reconciled none too soon.”
They heard horses approaching and turned, seeing Kearney and his archminister riding toward where they stood. Behind them, on foot, came several more Qirsi and a small contingent of soldiers.
“What’s happened?” the king asked, as he climbed off his mount. His eyes fell on Welfyl then quickly darted away. “Is that the thane?”
“It is, my liege.”
“Will he live?”
There was an uncomfortable silence.
Kearney shook his head slowly, his lips pressed thin. “Demons and fire. How many others were lost?”
“Twenty-five. Maybe more. I expect many of the wounded won’t make it.”
“Were your losses this high, Lord Curgh?”
“No, my liege. About half, though even that was too many.”
“Yes. Ours were similar.”
“If I may, Your Majesty,” Hagan said, “Heneagh has never been known for her might. And I’ve never seen an army that could strike as quickly as that of the empire.”
