“Forgive me, my lord,” he said. “That wasn’t my intent. The fact is, I know little of military tactics and even less about leading an army. Sir Traylee is the expert on such matters, not I.”
“Well, thank you, First Minister,” the duke said, eager now just to be away from the man. “I’ll give some thought to what you’ve said.”
“Very good, my lord.”
Before Pillad had finished saying this, Renald was already kicking at his horse’s flanks, putting as much distance as he dared between the Qirsi and himself. Yes, the man was behind him again, but Renald no longer cared. Just as long as he didn’t have to speak with him, or see the minister’s strange features. Or so he told himself. For some time after he pulled ahead of Pillad he found himself anticipating a sword thrust between the shoulder blades, flinching at every unexpected noise, and turning his head ever so slightly to try to see where the Qirsi was and what he was doing.
When Ewan finally rejoined him, the duke nearly wept with relief.
“I’ve spoken with the captains, my lord. They’re in agreement that we can try to march two more leagues after dusk. I knew that you would prefer this, so I told them that we would. I hope that was all right.”
This was how a man serving in a noble court should speak to his duke, with the clarity and purpose of a soldier. White-hairs seemed always to be weaving mists with their words.
“Yes, swordmaster. I’m pleased to hear that. Well done.”
“Thank you, my lord. Shall I leave you?”
“No!” Renald said, a bit too quickly. “I’d be grateful if you rode with me for a time.”
“You honor me, my lord.”
Over the next several hours, riding side by side, the two men said little. But Renald felt far safer with Ewan nearby. Let the minister make an attempt on his life. He’d die before he could raise a weapon or draw upon one of his powers. Thinking this, the duke tried to recall what magics Pillad possessed, but he could only remember healing and gleaning. There was a third, he knew. What was it?
They stopped just as the sun disappeared below the western horizon, the sky above it aflame with orange and red. Most of the men sat beside a narrow stream that wound past the grasses and stones of the northern Moorlands on its way to Binthar’s Wash. The duke and swordmaster left their horses grazing on the moist grass, and walked among the men, offering words of encouragement. It had been Ewan’s idea-a way to raise the men’s spirits, he said-and it did seem to do his warriors some good.
At one point, Renald looked up to see Pillad, still atop his mount, gazing northward, as if he could see the towers of Galdasten Castle from this distance. A moment later one of the soldiers said something to him, drawing his attention once more. And when he finally had the opportunity to look for Pillad again, he spotted the minister standing near the soldiers, watching the duke. When their eyes met, the Qirsi nodded and smiled, as if nothing were amiss. But once more Renald had the sense that the man was deceiving him.
“I want you to send out scouts,” Renald told Ewan, as they returned to their horses.
“We already have scouts ahead of us, my lord, watching for imperial soldiers or any sign of the King’s Guard.”
“Fine. But I also want you to send men back to the north. I want to make certain that we’re not followed.”
The swordmaster looked puzzled. “We left few of Braedon’s men alive in Galdasten, my lord, and fewer still alive and at large. Surely there weren’t enough of them to muster a force of any consequence.”
“It’s not the empire I fear.”
“My lord?”
“Humor me, swordmaster. Send back two men. Tell them to watch the northern horizon.”
“We have only a few spare mounts left, my lord.”
“I don’t care.”
Ewan shrugged, then nodded. “Yes, my lord.”
They set out again a short time later, the column of men stretching behind Renald in the gathering gloom, so that the duke could barely see the last of his men. Panya, the white moon, appeared in the east soon after nightfall, huge and pale and just a night shy of full. Even low in the sky, her glow was enough to cast long faint shadows across the moors. As she rose, her light strengthened until the grasses and stones themselves seemed luminous. Some time later, red Ilias rose below her, adding his radiance to hers: the lovers, one night before the Night of Two Moons in the turn of Adriel, Goddess of Love. Once more Renald’s thoughts returned to Galdasten and Elspeth. Tomorrow would mark seventeen years since their joining, and tomorrow night seventeen years since the consummation of the their love. According to lore, lying together for the first time on Lovers’ Night ensured a lifetime of love and passion. So much for the moon legends.
“My lord, listen!” Ewan said, abruptly reining his mount to a halt.
Renald did the same, and heard it as well. Two faint voices calling, “My lord! My lord!”
“What could it be?” the duke asked.
“Scouts,” Ewan said, and kicked his horse to a gallop back toward the end of the column.
Renald followed, cold panic sweeping over him like an ocean wave in the snows.
The two men Ewan had sent to scout the north rode into view as the duke and his swordmaster neared the rear of Galdasten’s army. Both men looked terribly young, their faces ashen in the moonlight.
“Report,” Ewan commanded.
“We watched th’ northern horizon as ye ordered, swordmaster. An’ at first we saw nothin’. But a few times we heard horses, or thought we did. And so we slows down and waits a bit. And then we sees ’em. A large army of riders followin’ behind us.”
“Riders?”
“Not just riders,” the other one said. “White-hairs. Must be two hundred of ’em.”
“Qirsi?” Ewan said, breathless, fear in his eyes.
“Where’s Pillad?” the duke asked, looking around for the man.
The swordmaster stared at him. “I don’t remember seeing him when we stopped.”
Renald closed his eyes and ran a hand over his face, fearing that he might vomit. “He wasn’t there,” he said, as certain of this as he was of his own name. “He’s already gone to join them.”
“You said there’s two hundred of them?” Ewan asked, turning to the men once more.
“Yes, swordmaster.”
“We’ve five times that many, my lord. Magic or no, we should be able to defeat them. We’ll marshal the men, make our stand right here. Archers on the flanks, swordsmen in the center.”
Renald nodded, but said nothing. Let the swordmaster and his men believe this. He knew better. These Qirsi had gotten past the force he left in Galdasten, and perhaps the Braedony fleet, as well. It would be a slaughter.
“Do you know what powers Pillad possesses?” he asked at last, gazing northward, waiting for a glimpse of the Qirsi army.
“Not all of them, my lord. I know he can heal, and I once saw him start a fire in his hearth with only a thought.”
Fire, yes. That was it. They’d all be killed by Qirsi fire.
* * *
Slipping away from Renald’s army was laughably easy, though it soured his mood for a time. That none of them should notice or care struck him as insulting, one final indignity among too many to count. Still, had a soldier spotted him, forcing him to fight or flee, it would have made matters considerably more difficult. It might have cost him his life. Better to be ignored than pursued.
Once he was clear of the Eandi army and the two scouts sent back by the swordmaster, he rode northward at a full gallop. And when at last he spotted the Qirsi army, he raised a hand, summoned a flame and his healing magic, and bore a bright beacon on his palm, announcing himself to his fellow warriors. Abruptly his heart was pounding, not with remorse at what he had done, nor with fear of the battle to come, but rather with anticipation. At long last, he was to meet the Weaver, to bow before the man who would lead the Forelands and guide his people to their rightful destiny. He wondered briefly if he’d recognize this man who he had only encountered previously in dreams.
He needn’t have worried.
