“My lord.” The captains bowed. The Duke gave them all a last grim smile and returned to the keep. In a few minutes, the muster was over, and Paks had limped back to the stables with Vik. She spent me day doing such chores as she could manage without standing. Someone brought a pile of swords for her to clean and sharpen; she found her own, now notched, as she worked.
Sometime in the afternoon, they were startled by a horn cry from the gate tower. Paks stiffened, her hand clenched on the hilt of the sword she was cleaning. The fort erupted into action and noise. A squad of Clarts came boiling out of the inner court, their horses striking sparks off the stone paving. Through the open gate Paks could hear shouts from outside. These ceased, and she heard the drumming of a single galloping horse coming nearer. She glanced around the stableyard, then toward the inner gate. The Duke, armed and mounted, sat his horse in the space between the walls, his squires behind him.
The hoofbeats outside slowed, then halted. The Duke raised his hand. Into Paks’s view rode a mailed figure in Halveric green on a lathered chestnut horse. He pushed up his visor; Paks thought she recognized Aliam Halveric. He rode forward until his horse was beside the Duke’s and they were face to face. They clasped arms.
“I have much to say to you,” said the Duke.
“And I to you,” replied the Halveric.
“I fear we are crowded within,” said the Duke. “Though I would welcome you and your captains to the keep, we have many wounded and I have brought them all inside the walls.”
“We came prepared to camp,” said the Halveric. “For a long time, if need be. I am only sorry we missed the battle. I would be glad, however, to accept your generous offer of a roof for myself and my captains. Where would you prefer I place my company?”
Paks thought she saw a smile flicker across the Duke’s face. “Old friend,” he said, and the Halveric relaxed visibly. “I will answer what you are too courteous to ask. Your men within these walls are at your disposition, to stay or go as you direct. Between us now there can be no question of captives. Your men acted in all ways honorably and bravely. I would suggest you leave the wounded inside the walls. Now—will you see them first, or come with me?”
The Halveric spoke in a softer voice, and Paks could not hear. The Duke nodded, and beckoned a squire forward. The Halveric spoke to him, and he rode out the gate. The other squires dismounted, one taking all the horses, and the other holding the reins for the Duke and the Halveric to dismount. The two men stood talking while the horses were led away. In a short time Sunnot, the Halveric sergeant, came from the inner court and went down on one knee before the Halveric, who raised him up at once. Some command was given; Sunnot bowed slightly and turned away, leading the Halveric toward the barracks with the worst wounded. He was smiling, clearly relieved to have his own commander there at last.
When the great burial mound was finished, all the companies assembled there for a final leave-taking. The names of the fallen were called aloud one last time. Vladi’s spearmen sang “The Dance of Frostbreath” and tossed their spears over the mound. The Clarts performed a wild dance mimicking combat on horseback; the thunder of hooves, one of them had explained to Paks, would carry their fallen comrades to the endless fields of the afterworld, where horses never tire, nor riders fall. Aliam Halveric and his captains sang to his harper’s playing, the old “Fair Were the Towers Whose Stones Lie Scattered” that Paks had heard even in Three Firs—but instead of the name of the Prince and his nobles, they sang the names of the Halveric dead. Then the Duke signalled his piper, and a tune Paks had never heard before seemed to drag all the sorrow and anger out of her heart with its own bitterness. It was the “Ar hi Tammarion,” the lament written for the death of the Duke’s lady by the half-elven harper at the Court of Tsaia, and not since then played openly. Paks did not know the history of the song, but felt its power, as the rough wind dried tears she had shed without knowing it.
Their journey back to Rotengre passed quickly and uneventfully; five days after leaving the north they were back in position. The horses they had ridden had to be returned; most had been borrowed from one or another militia. Paks led half a dozen back to the horselines of Sorellin. Coming back, she was hailed by a burly sergeant. His voice was vaguely familiar.
“Hey! Duke’s sword! Aren’t you the one who came across the lines that night?”
Paks looked at him, not sure of his face. “Yes. Why?”
“By the sword, you look so much better I’d not have known you but for your size and yellow hair. Why? Because we’ve heard about you—and I’m sorry we gave you such trouble that night.”
Paks thought back to that black wet night and shivered, though it was daylight. “That’s all right.”
He sucked a tooth for a moment. “Well—I came close enough to tossing you in our guard cell. It was a lesson to me. Anyway, I’m glad you survived it all. I’m Sim, by the way—Sim Plarrist—and I’d be glad to stand you a tankard of ale—”
Paks shook her head. “Not until the city yields. May it be short—but until then we’re to stay strictly with our Company. But thank you.”
“No hard feelings, then?”
“No.” He waved her on, and Paks threaded her way to her own lines in the fading light. There, in another echo of the earlier event, was Barra on guard.
“Paks, the Duke wants to see you.”
“Do you know what about?” Her stomach clenched, expecting bad news.
“I think he’s heard about Saben and Canna.”
“Bad?”
Barra shrugged. “I don’t know anything. When I asked, I was told to mind my own business and see you got the Duke’s message. But if it was good news, I think we’d know.”
“I suppose.” Tears stung her eyes, and Barra’s face seemed to waver before her. Barra squeezed her arm, and Paks went on to the Duke’s tent.
The lamps inside were already lit, and a brazier warmed the room. The Duke moved to his work table; Paks glanced at it, and saw on its uncluttered surface a little red stone horse strung on a thong, and a Girdish medallion on a chain. She knew them at once, and felt the blood drain from her face.
“You recognize them.” Paks looked up to meet the Duke’s steady gaze. She nodded. “Paks, I’m sorry. I had hoped they would be found sooner. The surgeon says Saben had taken a hard blow to the head, and probably never woke up. He died soon after they were found. Canna was not badly wounded in the fight, but when the brigands realized their hideout had been found, they tried to kill all their prisoners before they fled. Though she was still alive when the militia got in, she died several days later, here in camp. She knew you had made it, and that we’d defeated Siniava’s army on the road and gone on north. The surgeon said she wanted you to have her medallion, and wanted you to know you did the right thing. She was glad you made it through; he said she died satisfied.” The Duke paused. Paks was trying to blink back tears, but she could feel them trickling down her face. “Paks, are you a Girdsman?”
“No, sir.”
“Hmm. Girdsmen usually want their holy symbol returned to their home grange, with an account of their deeds. I wonder why Canna wanted you to have it, if you aren’t Girdish.”
Paks shook her head, unable to think why or answer. She had hoped so that they would be found alive, unlikely as it had been. Even now she could scarcely believe she would never see Saben again.
“Paks—you were Saben’s closest friend, as far as I know. Did he ever say what he wanted done with his things?”
Paks tried to remember. “No—sir. He had family, that he sent things to. But he—he—”