And yet—he had to admit she was right. He knew who he was, now: the rightful heir to Lyonya’s throne, a half-elf, torn from his birthright by slavers. No one else could do what he must do—restore the frayed taig of Lyonya, and the alliance of elf and human, clean the forests of evil influence. Lyonya needed its king—needed him—and he could not deny a paladin’s right to follow a quest to its end. But Paksenarrion—dear to him as his own daughter—his heart burned to think of her in their hands. All he had seen in thirty-odd years of war came to him that night, and showed him what she must endure.
He forced his mind to his own plans. If she had bought his life, he must make use of it. Selfer would be far north of Vérella by now, riding hard to meet Dorrin’s cohort and bring them down. Dorrin herself, in Vérella, would have fresh mounts ready for them, and a royal pass to follow him. Kostvan had agreed to let Arcolin pass through, if it came to that, and would be alert in case the Pargunese tried to take advantage of his absence. He thought ahead. Surely the enemy would strike before he reached Chaya—but where? Not in the Mahieran lands close to Vérella, nor in the little baronies of Abriss or Dai. East of that, in Verrakai domain? At the border itself? In Lyonya? He thought over what Paks had said about Achrya’s influence there—some thought of him as a blood-thirsty mercenary. He had no clear idea of the river road in his mind; he’d always gone south to visit the Halverics, cutting eastward from below Fiveway to go through Brewersbridge and avoid Verrakai altogether.
At Westbells, the High Marshal and Phelan both stopped to wake Marshal Torin and hand over Paks’s gear. Seklis did not explain much, and Marshal Torin, sleepy-eyed and bewildered, did not ask. Kieri touched that bright armor for the last time, as he thought, and prayed to all the gods that Paks might be spared the worst. The first glimmer of light seeped into the eastern sky as they rode away. Around him the ponderous hooves of the heavy warhorses—twenty of them—shook the earth. Behind were the lighter mounts of the infantry and bowmen, and then the pack train. Kieri’s mouth twitched, remembering Dorrin’s sulfurous comments on the pack train. He would have minded more, except that their slowness gave Dorrin a better chance to catch up. He thought where Selfer would be, on the road he knew best—changing horses, gulping a hot mug of sib, and starting off again, faced with Crow Ridge to climb.
As the day brightened, Kieri glanced around to see what his escort looked like in the daytime. Twenty massive gray warhorses, twenty plate-armored knights with spears and swords. Already the heavy horses were streaked with sweat; they were meant for power, not distance. Twenty mounted infantry, on gray horses much smaller than the warhorses; these carried short swords, with shields slung to the saddles. Ten mounted bowmen, on the same light horses, with the short, sharply curved bow of the northern nomad, to be used mounted or afoot: an excellent bow in the forest, as well. All these were in rose and silver or gray, the royal colors of Tsaia. His own tensquad, still in Phelani maroon and white, mounted on matched bays (how had Dorrin accomplished that, he wondered?), with Vossik at their head. The King’s Squires from Lyonya, whom he hardly knew, but for Garris: they rode close around him, with the royal pennant of Lyonya displayed. And the two Marshals: High Marshal Seklis, and Marshal Sulinarrion, both in Gird’s blue and white, with the crescent of Gird on chest and cloak. Behind came the pack train—servants, supplies, more than forty beasts extra, which the Tsaian Royal Guard insisted on.
Kieri looked around for the Royal Guard cohort commander. He had met the man the previous afternoon, before leaving the palace, but could not recognize him among the other knights. But the man caught his eye, reined his horse close, and bowed.
“My lord? You wish to rest?”
Kieri nearly laughed, but managed to hide it. “No, Sir Ammerlin. I’m used to longer rides than this. I wanted to ask, though, what your usual order of march would be.”
Ammerlin frowned. “Well—it’s rare that we travel far; we’re the Royal Guard, after all, and we stay with the prince. We should breathe the horses soon, my lord. If they’re to go far—”
“I suppose Lyonya is far,” said Kieri. It seemed to him that the pace had been but a crawl—a man could have walked the distance as fast—but he knew better than to push another man’s command beyond its limits. Ammerlin bowed in the saddle.
“I thank you, my lord.” He returned to the head of the column, spoke to the cohort bugler, and a quick signal rang out. Kieri tossed a hand signal at Vossik that halted his own tensquad in their tracks while the Royal Guard straggled to a halt. High Marshal Seklis grinned at him.
“You did that on purpose.”
“Marshal, my company doesn’t know their signals.”
Seklis laughed. “My lord, your company could probably keep an even interval without any signals at all—couldn’t it now?”
“It might,” said Kieri. Ammerlin had come back, on foot. “How long will we rest?” asked Kieri.
“A quarter glass or so, my lord. I need to check on the pack animals, and make sure everything is holding up well. And each rider checks his own animal.”
“Then I’ll walk around a bit.” Kieri swung off his horse to find that Lieth was already down and holding his rein. “You’re quick,” he said, smiling. She looked down.
“My lord king, not quick enough.”
He knew what she meant; the afternoon before, when they were all captured. He laid his hand on her arm. “Lieth, I will not ask you not to think of it—I think of it every moment. But I need my squires alert now—here—so I will ask that you think of it in the back of your head. Let you not reproach yourself for the past—for all of us have failed someone somewhere.”
She met his eyes, her own full of tears, but nodded. “I will not speak of it again.”
“We will speak of it again, Lieth—to the whole court of Lyonya—but first we will get there.” At that she managed a smile, and he walked off the road to the snowy verge, stamping his feet. Suriya and Garris flanked him on either side; Vossik he found close behind him whenever he turned.
The pause lasted longer than a quarterglass, for some of the pack animals needed their packs reset. Kieri contained his annoyance, to Ammerlin’s evident relief. High Marshal Seklis was less restrained. “I’ve wondered, Ammerlin, how you could possibly get to the field in time for a battle, and now I see you couldn’t.”
Ammerlin reddened. “We could, close to Vérella, but—”
“Gird’s shovel, man, you’re not an honest four hour ride from Vérella yet!”
“But we had to pack for a journey—”
“I daresay the expedition to Luap’s stronghold had less baggage, and they meant to be gone a year,” returned Seklis.
“High Marshal,” said Kieri quietly, and shook his head. Seklis subsided; Ammerlin stalked off, still angry. “Don’t bait him,” said Kieri. “We will need his goodwill, when they attack us.”
“You think they will?”
Kieri shrugged. “Why else would they have let me go? Paksenarrion said—and it makes sense—that two powerful evils do not want me on the throne of Lyonya. I’m not sure why they didn’t kill me at once—but they must intend to do it, and this journey is the best time.”