“Come on!” he shouted, watching Eandi soldiers chase down the few renegades who remained on the plain, searching for just one white-hair of his own. “Cowards!”
“Tavis!”
He ignored the voice, though for just a moment it sounded like his father’s.
“Tavis, lower your sword!”
Maybe it was Xaver calling to him. Perhaps he was surrounded by wraiths, the shades of all his dead.
“Tavis,” came the voice again, softer this time, and much closer.
He spun, prepared to strike at the white-hair he saw standing before him.
“I can break your blade if I have to.”
Tavis blinked, realized it was Fotir.
“Please, my lord.”
He lowered his sword, abruptly finding that he was too weary to hold it high anymore. “First Minister,” he muttered.
“I’m so sorry, my lord. To have lost one of them would have been bad enough. But to lose both…” He shook his head, looking like he might weep. “There’s been no darker day in the long history of our house.”
Tavis should have known what to say, but his battle rage had sluiced away, leaving him utterly spent. Even had he wanted to cry, he couldn’t have. He could only nod dully, his eyes fixed on the ground at his feet.
“Let me take you back to the camp, my lord. Grinsa is eager to see you.”
“He survived,” Tavis said.
“Yes, my lord. He was injured, but the healers have treated him. He’ll be fine.”
“Good.” He nodded again. “That’s good.”
Fotir put an arm around Tavis’s shoulders and began to guide him back toward the Eandi lines. After only a few steps, however, Tavis stopped, turning his gaze to where his father had fallen.
“I should … He shouldn’t just be left there.”
“He’s already been borne back to the Curgh camp, my lord. So has Master MarCullet.”
They began to walk again. Tavis realized that he still held his blade in his hand, and he sheathed it.
“Should we send a messenger to my mother?” he asked.
“Truly, my lord, I don’t know. It might be easier for her to hear these tidings from you.”
Tavis looked up at that, meeting the minister’s gaze. He nearly told the man to send a messenger, for he had no stomach for that conversation. But something stopped him.
For too long he had considered himself a coward, seeing in his failures as a warrior and the craven manner in which he had killed the assassin in Wethyrn, all the evidence of this that he needed. And though ashamed of his weakness, he had chosen to accept it as part of who he was. Today, he had acquitted himself well in combat, only to realize now how poor a measure of bravery was one’s performance on a battlefield.
More to the point, on this day, he had become duke of Curgh. It was not a title he wanted, not so soon. But it was his nevertheless. The facile acceptance of his own limitations was a luxury he could no longer afford.
“You’re right,” he said. “I should be the one to tell her of Father’s death.” He straightened, even managed a small smile. “Thank you, Fotir. I know how much you cared for my father, and how much he valued your service to our house. I’m a poor substitute for him, but still I hope that you’ll continue to serve as Curgh’s first minister.”
“If you wish it, my lord, I’d be honored.”
“Thank you, Fotir.”
“Lord Curgh!”
They halted and turned. Kearney strode toward them, followed by Gershon Trasker and the thane of Shanstead.
Tavis knelt, as did the minister. “Your Majesty.”
“Please rise.”
They both stood again.
“I’m pleased to see that you’re all right, Tavis.”
“Thank you, Your Majesty.”
“I was deeply saddened to hear that your father was lost. He was as fine and noble a man as I’ve ever known. The Underrealm will shine like Morna’s sky with his light. I can say the same of Master MarCullet. The House of Curgh has paid a dear price for the freedom of the Forelands. All in the land shall hear of the valor of her sons.”
Tavis looked away, his eyes stinging. “Thank you, Your Majesty.”
“I take it you were on your way to see the gleaner.”
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
“I’d like to join you if I may. He’s earned our thanks and more.”
“Of course, Your Majesty.”
They began once more to walk, Tavis dabbing at his eyes, hoping Kearney wouldn’t notice. A few moments before, he couldn’t bring himself to shed even a single tear. Now he couldn’t stop his tears from flowing.
They found Grinsa sitting on the grass beside his sister. His face was the color of ash and his clothes were soaked dark with sweat. But he smiled when he spotted Tavis and even raised a hand in greeting.
Kearney hurried forward to the archminister, hesitated briefly, then stooped and kissed her quickly on the cheek.
“I feared for you,” he said, a bright smile on his lips.
Keziah’s cheeks colored. “Thank you, Your Majesty.”
“What happened?”
“The Weaver sent an assassin for me. I would have died had it not been for Lord Kentigern.”
“Aindreas?” the king said, clearly surprised. “Where is he now?”
“He’s dead, Your Majesty.”
The king’s smile vanished. “Damn. We lost too many today.”
“Tavis?” Grinsa was eyeing him grimly, as if readying himself for dark tidings. “Tell me.”
“My father,” Tavis said, his voice breaking. “And Xaver.”
The gleaner closed his eyes for a moment. “I’m so sorry, Tavis.”
They were all watching him, pity in their eyes, and though he knew that they meant well, Tavis couldn’t bear their stares or their sympathy. He turned abruptly and started away. “My pardon, Your Majesty,” he called over his shoulder.
Tavis knew just where he was going, or rather, who he was looking for: the one man on the Moorlands who understood what he was feeling, who fully shared his grief.
It took him some time to find Hagan MarCullet, but he spotted the swordmaster at last, sitting on the grass some distance to the south of the Eandi camps. He had his back to the armies, and as Tavis approached he suddenly found himself hesitating, wondering if he should leave the man to his solitude and his anguish. At last he halted, intending to turn back.
But at that moment, Hagan turned to look at him. There were tears on the swordmaster’s ruddy cheeks, and his eyes were swollen and red.
“I’m sorry, Hagan. I … I didn’t mean to disturb you.”
The man beckoned to him with an open hand. “It’s all right, lad. Come on, then. He’d want us to be together. Both of them would.”
Tavis nodded, walked to the swordmaster, and sat down beside him. Hagan held a sword across his lap. Xaver’s sword.
“All that I taught him,” Hagan said, his voice even despite the tears streaming down his face. “I thought that it would prepare him for any enemy, that it could save him from … from this.” He shook his head, sobbing. “It was all for nothing.”
“That’s not so, Hagan,” Tavis said, tearful once more. “There was nothing you could have done to prepare us for this war. But I wouldn’t have traded those days in the castle wards for anything, and neither would Xaver. The lessons themselves were what mattered most. Don’t you know how proud he was to be your son, to train with you, to hear the castle guards speak of you with such awe? Even as a boy, he loved being called Stinger, because it marked him as Hagan MarCullet’s son. You taught him well, swordmaster, just as you did me.”
Hagan nodded, though his sobbing continued. Tavis laid a hand on his broad shoulder and said nothing more. But the two of them sat there for some time, their backs to the armies, their faces warmed by the sun and brushed by a gentle wind, their tears somehow less bitter for being shed together.
“He’s suffered too much for a boy so young,” the king said, watching as Tavis hurried off.
Grinsa’s heart ached for the young lord, but he thought it important that the others begin to see Tavis as he did, especially now, with the dukedom thrust upon him. “He’s not as young as you think he is.”