“Child, shall I—”

“No,” she said firmly, swallowing hard. She drew her father’s dagger and held it aloft. This was a son’s duty to a father who fell in battle. She told herself to be strong.

Uzfan did not argue with her. He pulled off Prince Volvn’s helmet and the mail coif beneath it. The hot, dusty wind ruffled the dead man’s gray hair. Uzfan tipped back his head, exposing her father’s muscular throat.  She crouched, her fingers holding the dagger so tightly her whole hand shook.  Tears filled her eyes anew, stinging them. “Forgive me,” she whispered, and plunged the dagger through his throat.

Something pale and gossamer-light floated upward from his body. It encompassed her for a second, bringing with it a sensation of warmth and well-being. Then it was gone, his soul, gone to the safety of the third world.  She wept, but there was no time. Shouting at her, Uzfan gripped her shoulder and pulled her upright. She stumbled and started to run, then turned back and grabbed the tattered banner.

“Hurry!” Uzfan shouted.

The riders were too close. She heard them whooping and yelling shrilly. All around her darkness seemed to be descending. A bugling roar of something unearthly made her glance back. She saw a darsteed coming after her, bounding with a stride twice as long as a horse’s. Its nostrils blew flame, and next to it ran a hurlhound with fangs bared and dripping yellow poison. It bayed at her, and her heart lurched in fear.

Uzfan shouted, and a great cloud of dust whirled up between them and the riders.  The swirling cyclone caused the darsteeds and horses to rear to a halt. Two of the hurlhounds came running on, straight into the cloud. They were swept off their feet and flung high into the vortex.

Alexeika saw the look of strain on the old priest’s face and knew he could not hold the spell long. Gripping his arm, she ran with him, pushing him when his old legs faltered. At the far edge of the field, Shelena waited on her pony, holding the reins of Alexeika’s frightened mount. Larisa and the boys were already fleeing, the boys beating the heavily laden donkey with sticks to make it run.

Uzfan stumbled and fell, despite her efforts to catch him. She crouched low and pulled him upright.

Dirt streaked his face and coated his beard. He was gasping for air, his face purple with exertion. Behind her came a triumphant cheer as the cloud dissipated and the looters surged through.

Most of them fell on the bodies with a savagery that sickened Alexeika. The hurlhounds tasted salt and fell back with yelps of pain.  “Come on,” she muttered to Uzfan, pushing him forward.  She thought the looting might distract the horde enough to allow her and the old man to escape. But the sound of pursuit came again.  Uzfan looked back and murmured something that made her ears ring. A column of fire blazed up behind them, cutting off the pursuers a second time.  The smell of magic filled the air, making Alexeika cough. She urged him on, hoping he did not kill himself with such exertion.

“Hurry!” Shelena called. Her pony was rearing with fear. She barely managed to control it.

When it whirled around beneath her, she flung the reins of Alexeika’s pony at her and galloped away. Alexeika lunged forward and caught the reins just in time to keep her own mount from bolting as well.

Talking to the frightened animal, trying to soothe it while it reared and pulled back, she got Uzfan astride it and jumped on herself. Wheeling the pony around, she let it run.

An arrow grazed her shoulder blade, stinging harshly though giving her no serious harm. She glanced back, but the looters did not follow her away from the battlefield. The man swathed in black who had shot at her lowered his bow and gave her a mocking salute, then turned his darsteed around and headed back to the carnage.

The pony ran and ran, over the hill and up the next, until the woods swallowed them and they slowed to a jouncing, weary trot through the cool shade.  “I don’t believe it,” Uzfan muttered in his beard. “We got away. We got away. Do they not know what they let escape? There must have been no Believers controlling them. They let us get away.”

“No,” Alexeika said firmly. “You frightened them with your magic. Are you feeling better now? Should I find a stream so you may drink?” “No,” he said, his voice sounding weak and shaky. “Do not stop. We dare not stop.”

By the time they reached camp on the banks of the fjord, it was late afternoon.  Alexeika could hear the women keening, the sound rising and falling like a brutal wind. She bowed her head, struggling with her own emotions, but she refused to wail and tear her clothing and mourn in the way of female serfs.  The camp was a large one, although it did not contain all the families of the men and boys who had died today. Many had come to join the war, leaving their homes to fight the darkness. But now, those who remained—the old men, the women, the children—sobbed and grieved in their tents or else stood as though turned to stone in the midst of some task, their faces ravaged with sorrow.  A few gathered around as Alexeika drew her weary pony to a halt. They stared at her in silence, watching as she carried her father’s sword into her tent.  Draysinko, a man no older than thirty but spared from fighting because of his crippled leg, was waiting when she came finally outside again. She had washed her face and eaten the few bites of food she could choke down. Severgard, now clean and oiled, lay in its scabbard atop her father’s cot. Tonight, she would light the Element candles and pray for him the same way he had taught her to mourn her mother, in dignified privacy. Not for her the grieving of the serfs, the women sitting outside their tents and keening for hours or perhaps even days. It was the custom of the peasants to show how much they had respected a loved one by mourning for as long as possible before exhaustion claimed them.  Sometimes, Alexeika almost believed they were competing with each other by displaying the most grief.

When she emerged from her tent, an uneasy delegation, consisting of Draysinko, five old men, and two gray-haired court ladies determined to look as stern and regal as ever despite their plain linsey gowns, was waiting politely for her.  Draysinko stepped forward, limping on his crooked leg, and bowed to her. “Your father is dead?” he asked.

Formality required her to make an official announcement. The camp now lacked a leader, and she wondered who would be named to take her father’s place. She had filled in during his absences before. He had traveled often to secret meetings with other rebel leaders, trying to raise an army, trying to obtain weapons and armor where and when he could. But this time, the absence would be permanent.  Her heart ached, and she swiftly turned her thoughts away lest she break down.  Her father had taught her that a good commander did not betray weakness to his followers.

“Excuse this intrusion,” Draysinko said politely, although his eyes looked impatient. “As the daughter of the House of Volvn, you must officially make the announcement.”

It irritated her that he sought to instruct her in her public duties. Her head lifted high on her graceful neck. She squared her shoulders.  “Consider the announcement made,” she said. “Prince Volvn is dead. The battle was lost.”

The men of the little delegation exchanged glances. All except Draysinko removed their caps and bowed to her. She saw tears run down the withered cheeks of Lady Natelitya, but neither of the two older women changed their bleak expressions.  They had lost so much in recent years, perhaps they could not feel this most recent blow.

‘Tonight,“ Alexeika said, ”I shall speak to the junior auxiliary. We will step up their training. In a month, they should be ready to march on Trebek as—” “No,” Lady Natelitya said. “My husband is dead. My eldest sons are dead. Now my youngest son is dead. You will not kill my grandson as well.” Alexeika frowned. She had not expected opposition, especially not from the fierce Lady Natelitya. “The plans have already been made. My father—” “—is not here to lead the next skirmish,” Lady Natelitya said. “You will not risk the children.”

Alexeika drew in a deep breath. “Very well. We will have to send word to the

forces at Lolta. We can join them or go to—”

“No,” Lady Natelitya said. “It is over.”

“But—”

“Over, Alexeika,” the woman said. Turning her back, she walked away.  Alexeika stared after her in dismay. She started to go after Lady Natelitya, whose support was important, but Draysinko blocked her path.  “We must talk,” he said.

Hope came back to her. She smiled at him and the others who remained. “Then you agree with me that we must continue our strategy? With delays, of course, to recover fighting strength—” “There will be no more fighting,” Draysinko interrupted her.  She could see in their eyes that they were united against her. “Explain,” she said sharply.

“The war of rebellion is over,” Draysinko announced. “We lost. Today’s massacre ends everything.”

“No!” she cried. “It cannot. It must not. If you—if we give up now, then everything we lost today was lost in vain. You would make a mockery of their deaths.”

“Word has come to us from our friends in Lolta,” Draysinko said. “It came too late to stop today’s fighting, but there is hope for the rest of us.” “What is this message?” Alexeika asked suspiciously.

“King Muncel offers a royal pardon to all rebels who surrender themselves.”

A scornful laugh escaped her. “And you believe this? It’s a trick.” “No. It is a chance to live. The messenger from Lolta says some have already accepted the offer. They have not been killed. They are to be serfs in the southeast lands.”

Near Gant, she thought with a shudder. “Serfs?” she echoed, disdain harsh in her voice.

“Do not look so unhappy, Princess,” Draysinko replied sharply. He had been born a serf, she remembered. “There is hard work, but what is harder than living like this, hand-to-mouth, always in danger of betrayal or capture? It is a chance to make a new beginning. A chance to start over.”

“Impossible,” she said, shaking her head. “The king seeks to trick us. Tleska, you surely do not believe this offer will be honored?”

The old man she spoke to knotted his face in consternation. He was gripping his cap in his gnarled old hands. They trembled visibly. “We can’t go on without the general.”

“Yes, we can,” she said loudly.

Other people, drawn by their argument, began to gather around.  “We must!” she continued. “One defeat is not enough to stop us—” “Yes it is!” Draysinko interrupted her. His dark eyes snapped with anger. He looked like he wanted to shake her. “This wasn’t just a defeat.” “It was a massacre,” Tleska said. “There isn’t an able-bodied man left among us.”

“Who will hunt for us this winter?” asked a woman from the rear of the crowd.  “My Slan was the best with a bow in the camp. Who will feed me and his children now? Who will hunt for the rest of you?”

“I can hunt,” Alexeika said proudly. “The older boys can hunt.”

“A woman and some children,” Draysinko said with a sneer.  She glared at him. “You are not too crippled to learn to shoot a bow. You could fish and—” “I am not trained for such work,” he said, using the argument he always produced to keep from doing his share. He had been a rug-maker in Grov when the purge began. As long as he was only expected to weave cloth, he worked well. Ask him to do anything else, and he shrieked with complaints. “Hear me, all of you!” he shouted to the crowd. “We must face reality. This summer, yes, we can survive in hiding. But come the snows, what will we do?”

“We’ll do what we’ve always done,” Alexeika said, astonished by his cowardice.  Yes, today had shaken them all. Every time she thought of life without her father, she grew faint and sick inside. Still, he would not want her, or any of them, to give up. “We’ll winter in the mountain caves. And we’ll go on with what we must do. With what we vowed to do.”

“The war is over,” Draysinko insisted. “We can have a full pardon if we will surrender.”

“Then what did my father die for?” she asked fiercely. “Why did he spill his blood, if not to put a stop to the evil that has taken Nether? He did not fight today so that I could become a Gantese serf.”

“Nothing was said about serving the Gantese,” said a man quietly.  He was a stranger. She guessed he must be the messenger from Lolta. Even as she sized him up, noting the lean body in mismatched chain mail, the scar on his cheek, the shiftiness to his eyes, and the worn but serviceable sword in his scabbard, Alexeika reminded herself that they should move camp as soon as he left. She did not like the looks of him. Nor would she trust anything he said.  Alexeika looked at the bleak and frightened faces turned to her. “There’s another thing you haven’t thought through,” she said. “Will you accept the Reformed Church and renounce the old ways?”

That shocked them. Murmurs arose in the crowd. Several women flung their aprons over their heads and began to whimper. Young children, big-eyed still from the news that they had no fathers or brothers, stood huddled together in clusters, watching their mothers panic.

“Nothing was said about that,” Draysinko admitted. He turned to look at the messenger, as did everyone else.

The stranger shrugged. “Heard nothing about it.”

“You know it will be required,” Alexeika said. “That’s the trick, isn’t it? By law, a serf is required to follow the beliefs of his master. Will you kneel to the Reformed Circle? Will you, Draysinko? Will you, Tleska? Boral? Tomk?  Ulinvo?”

No one answered her. She noticed old Uzfan walking toward the rear of the crowd.

Pale and weary, he leaned heavily on a wooden staff.

Drawing in a breath, Alexeika pointed at the priest. “Here is our Uzfan.  Remember that he was defrocked by the reformers because he would not leave the old ways. His brethren were beheaded.”

Uzfan nodded. “She speaks the truth. The Circle was once a theology of tolerance, embracing old messages and new. No longer is this true. You have lost your kinsmen today in this terrible tragedy. Take care you do not lose your gods as well.”

Alexeika looked at the messenger, her eyes filled with challenge and distrust.

“You’ve delivered your message,” she said. “Go back to Lolta.”

The man bowed to her. “I will tell them of the defeat.” She frowned, biting her lip, but there was no way to stop him. It was the truth, the dreadful, unflinching, harsh truth. Unbearable, and yet they had to bear it.  As the man mounted his horse and rode away, she squared her shoulders with an effort and faced the people again.

“We must grieve first,” she said. “Let us give ourselves time for that before we make any hasty decisions. In the morning, we’ll move camp and then we’ll—” “Why?” demanded Larisa. “Why should we move?”

“For safety,” Alexeika replied. “We have always done so after a messenger comes to us.”

“But who will strike the tents?”

“We can,” Alexeika said.

“It’s nearly nightfall,” Tleska said sadly. “We can’t march in the dark. Our hearts are too heavy.”

“No, of course we will not march tonight,” Alexeika agreed, masking her sigh. “I said we’ll break camp in the morning. At first light.”

“But how will my da’s ghost know to find me if I move away?” asked a little girl. She was missing her front teeth and had a spattering of freckles across her nose.

The wailing resumed, with women turning away, wadding their aprons in their hands. Children scurried after them, clutching folds of their skirts and crying too.

Dismayed, Alexeika felt weary to her bones. Grief had exhausted her. She wanted no conflict now, but Draysinko and the other men still stood there before her, looking indecisive. She could think of only one other way to raise their spirits and bring back their courage.

“Let us not forget why we fight,” she said. “Uzfan, when night falls, will you cast the prophecy about our true king once more?”

The old priest shook his head wearily. “Nay, child,” he said. “Not this night.

You cannot rouse the hearts of people until their sorrow is spent.” She would have argued and cajoled him, but he turned and walked away, leaning on his staff. One by one, the others trickled away, until only Draysinko was left.  “The people will not follow you,” he said spitefully. “You are not your father.

You are no man, despite your leggings and daggers.” “I know what my father would wish me to do,” she replied, still astonished by his hostility. Draysinko had always grumbled, but never before had he tried to create open dissension. Perhaps he had not dared to until now. Perhaps he wanted the leadership for himself.

She looked at Draysinko’s sour face. “I do not want my father’s death to be in vain.”

He frowned. “We will choose a new leader tomorrow.”

“We’ll choose when we reach our new camp. In a few days.”

“And who finds this new camp?” he asked with a sneer. “You?” She opened her mouth to say she could, but he turned away. Frowning and feeling troubled, she watched his limping figure a moment, then withdrew into her tent to think.

Her father’s presence seemed to fill the small space. Despite the gathering shadows she could see Severgard lying where she’d left it. It was a potent weapon, powered with magic. Who would carry it into battle now?  Sitting down on her cot, she gripped her hair with her fingers and leaned over, her grief mixed with resentment. If only she could have been male. Her father had needed a son to inherit this sword, to carry his name into history, to continue the fight for the true king. She was strong and fearless, but not strong enough to wield Severgard. She could barely lift it, and she knew not how to control its power.

What was she to do? Let these people disperse and surrender? Let the rebellion fall apart? Tell herself she could do nothing except bed a man and bring a son into the world, a son who years from now would perhaps live to carry this sword into battle? Why had the gods given her an agile mind and a strong will, if her loins were all she was good for?

Worst of all, she was disappointed in her people, disappointed by how thoroughly they had been demoralized. It was as though this blow had killed their hearts, leaving them without the will to continue. Was she the only one who raged at the massacre, who vowed in her heart she would never give up, would never surrender, would never accept Muncel the Usurper as her rightful king? She was ashamed of the people she called friends, ashamed and disappointed in them.  Perhaps tomorrow they would regain their courage. But as she listened to the wailing in the tents, she did not think they would. It was hard to lose, devastating to lose, knowing right was on your side, and yet losing anyway.  “Oh, Papa,” she whispered through her tears. “What am I to do?”

In lower Mandria, the palace of Savroix was lit inside and out for an evening summertime festival. Flambeaux atop poles illuminated the garden paths, and richly garbed guests wearing masks as disguises strolled in all directions.  Laughter and playful shrieks filled the warm air among the hedges. Lute music played in the distance.

A girl went running by with a merry tinkling of tiny bells sewn to her skirts, her mask slipping and her hair half-unbound. She was pursued by a young man with streaming lovelocks and a short beard. He carried his mask in his hand and was laughing lustily.

“Wicked, wicked!” the girl said. Her words were a rebuke, but her tone was all surrender. She ran on, disappearing into the shadows of the shrubbery, the young man on her heels.

Standing next to a stone statue, Pheresa watched the amorous couple vanish.  Although she had lived at court for several months now, she remained shocked by these wanton escapades. King Verence was a kindly, good-hearted man, but what misbehavior he did not himself witness he seemed to take no interest in. Nor did he want anyone carrying tales to him. Therefore, the courtiers did as they pleased as long as they kept decorum in the king’s presence. As for Verence himself, he kept two mistresses in opposite wings of the palace, and officious little secretaries with pens and parchment were in charge of keeping the two ladies’ schedules apart so that they never met each other.  Pheresa had not been trained to lead such a life as she saw daily at court. Nor could she bring herself to embrace it, despite the joking advice of others.  Often, she felt unsophisticated and alone. She had written only once to her mother for advice, but Princess Dianthelle’s reply was curt. Pheresa had to make herself admired if she was to succeed. No one could obtain popularity for her.  Pheresa had no particular wish to be popular among courtiers who were idle and heedless of anything except their next pleasure. She was interested in the workings of government and longed to be allowed to sit in on the meetings between king and council. Once, she had requested permission to attend. Her petition had been denied.

Now, her three companions—Lady Esteline, who was Pheresa’s court chaperone, plus Lady Esteline’s husband, Lord Thieron, and brother, Lord Fantil—observed her round-eyed expression at this evening’s festivities and laughed.  “That was the little Sofia you saw running into the shrubbery, my dear,” Lady Esteline said, giggling behind her slim hand. “One of the ladies in waiting to Countess Lalieux.”

Pheresa blinked. The Countess Lalieux was the king’s newer mistress. “I see,” she replied, but her voice was clipped.

Lady Esteline laughed harder. “Do not worry,” she said gaily. “Sofia and her pursuer are engaged to be married. Such a frown you wear.” Lord Fantil bowed to Pheresa. “Enchanting,” he said, showing his teeth in approval. “Such old-fashioned, country notions of propriety. Most young maidens fresh out of the nuncery are eager to embrace all that they see here. Few are as shy ... and as beguiling ... as you.”

Pheresa blushed to the roots of her hair and hoped the shadows concealed her change of color. She looked away from him, feeling his compliments and flattery to be inappropriate.

Lady Esteline laughed again. “Take care, Fantil. This child would rather read the dreary foreign dispatches and harvest accounts than flirt with a handsome man. I think it a grave disservice to teach young maidens how to read. See what comes of filling their minds with such nonsense?”

Lord Thieron threw back his bald head and brayed. The others joined in his laughter. Pheresa smiled to be a good sport. They were always laughing at her and teasing her. She disliked it very much, but she did not know what to do about it. Nor did she quite know how to acquire friends of her own choosing. Her place at court remained tenuous. The king liked her, and she had the honor of visiting him daily for chats and occasional games of chess. But she had no official position here. Niece of the king or not, she had no duties and no importance. Neither of the king’s mistresses had chosen to receive her or invite her to join their circle of companions. Pheresa was relieved because as a member of the royal family, she knew she should not recognize either woman. Yet she was lonely. King Verence’s wife had died several years ago, and he had not remarried. Pheresa believed he erred in this, for a queen would have curbed the courtiers’ excesses and organized their society more productively. But she knew better than to dispense either her opinions or her advice.  The best and most courteous of the older courtiers spoke to her pleasantly, but most of the younger set did not bother with her at all. Pheresa understood, of course. Until she was engaged to Prince Gavril and officially destined to one day be queen, she meant nothing here.

Now, she and her companions resumed their stroll along the garden path, and Pheresa kept a wary eye on how far away from the palace they seemed to be going.  From all sides, she could hear furtive rustlings and giggles in the ornate shrubbery. During the day, she adored the gardens and loved walking through their beauty. On evenings like this, however, she would rather have been safe in her own chamber.

Lady Esteline stumbled and gripped the arm of her husband. “Oh, how silly of me,” she said unsteadily. “This blighted slipper has come apart. Thieron, you must assist me.”

Her husband bent to reach beneath the long hem of her gown. Lord Fantil moved to stand beside Pheresa. She could smell a fragrance on him, something musky and disturbing. Her father had never worn scent. Nor did the king. She did not like the custom.

“Is it easily mended?” Fantil asked politely.

Lord Thieron pulled the slipper off his wife’s foot and held it up for inspection in the gloom. “I think not.”

“Such a bother,” Lady Esteline complained, “and I paid four dreits of silver for these shoes. I shall insist the cobbler refund my money.” “Let us go back,” Pheresa said with relief. “The men can help you walk, and I shall—” “No, my dear. How can you think of spoiling your evening because of my silly slipper?” Lady Esteline patted Pheresa’s hand. “You really must see the north fountains by moonlight. They are the most enchanting sight. Fantil, please escort Lady Pheresa there.”

“Of course,” he said eagerly.

A tiny sense of alarm passed through Pheresa. “The fountains will wait for another occasion,” she said, trying to keep her voice light and steady. “I could not leave you like this, my lady.”

“Dear child,” Lady Esteline cooed. “So sweet of you to worry about me. But I have my Thieron to escort me. Please go on.”

“I am a little tired,” Pheresa said desperately.

Fantil took her hand and tucked it in the crook of his arm. “Then we shall not tarry long. But the fountains by moonlight you must see, if my sister has decreed it. Come, my lady.”

He led her away into the shadows, away from the palace and the flaming torchlight. Pheresa did not want to go with this man. She knew she should not be with him alone, but her own chaperone had put her in his keeping. She did not know how to extricate herself from this situation without making a fuss. People already considered her quaint and old-fashioned. She would be joked at and mocked even more if she took fright and ran away.

The fountains stood beyond the farthest edge of the gardens, with the woodland park behind them. Cascades of water poured down and jetted into the air.  Although the moon was only a thin sliver tonight, the effect was a pretty one.  Pheresa stood there, gazing at the sight, and feeling very conscious of how close to her this man stood, of how tightly he kept her arm clasped within his.  “Beautiful,” she said. “Now, let us go back.”

She tried to turn around, but he held her where she was.

Pheresa frowned. “Please.”

“There is no hurry, my lady,” he said, and his voice was deep and smooth and assured. “Let us linger a few moments more to savor all that is special here.” From the corner of her eye, she glimpsed another couple nearby. They were embracing in a passionate kiss. Lord Fantil bent over her, and she could feel his warm breath upon her cheek.

She felt trapped, too warm, and a little faint. He meant to kiss her, of that she was certain. His arm had now encircled her back. His fingers splayed across her waist, pulling her closer to him.

“You are a beautiful child,” he murmured. “Your skin is so white it glows by moonlight. Your lips are—” Pheresa had a sudden clear thought of the palace and how close she stood to jeopardy here. If Fantil compromised her, she would leave Savroix in disgrace.  Certainly she would never marry the Heir to the Realm.  With a gasp, she turned her head, averting his lips from hers. He kissed her cheek instead, and she twisted in his hold, giving him a strong push.  He released her at once, much to her relief, and held up his hands. “Now, now, my little dove. What do you fear? Have you never savored a man’s ardor before?” “I do not intend to savor yours,” Pheresa said tartly.

“That is unkind. If I have frightened you, I beg your pardon. Please, my lady, there is nothing to fear. It is pleasant, once you grow used to it.” “No doubt,” she said, gathering up her skirts and walking around him. He turned to go with her, and she quickened her pace. “But I do not intend to dally here in the moonlight with you.”

“Tell me how I displease you,” he said, reaching out and gripping her wrist.

She stopped, too furious now to feel afraid. “Release me.” He obeyed, but in doing so he allowed his fingers to stroke her arm lightly. She shivered.

“Am I too ugly or too old for you?” he asked.

Pheresa frowned. Lord Fantil was young and very handsome, as well he knew. His games annoyed her. With a little huff, she started walking again.