“My lord?” Pillad asked mildly.
Faced now with having to make conversation with the man, Renald wasn’t certain what to say. If only he’d just remained in front of him.
“I was wondering, First Minister, if you feel the swordmaster is too easy on the men.”
It was the first thing that came to mind, and immediately he regretted saying it.
Pillad’s brow creased, and he tipped his head to the side, as if pondering the question. “I’m not certain I know what you mean, my lord.”
“Well, no matter.”
“If you refer to his concerns about tiring them, I suppose I do think it odd. He certainly trains them hard enough. Yet he seems reluctant to put that training to the test when it comes time for war.” His yellow eyes were so wide that he looked like some great pale owl. “Please don’t misunderstand, my lord. I have great respect for the swordmaster. But other armies have had to march longer distances over shorter spans of time, and they’ve fought effectively.”
Despite himself, Renald was swayed by this. “I’ve thought much the same thing,” he said, feeling that by admitting even this much, he was betraying Ewan’s trust. “I would like to cover more ground before we stop for the night.”
“Of course, my lord. I know how eager you are to join the king. Still, it’s probably best to be prudent under these circumstances.”
“Perhaps so.”
Pillad looked back over his shoulder, no doubt to see if Ewan was returning. “It might also behoove you to give some consideration to the swordmaster’s command, my lord.”
“His command?”
“Yes. If he’s told the men that they’ll only cover a certain distance in a given day, then any deviation from that plan could undermine his authority. It may even convince the men that you’ve lost faith in him.”
“So now you believe that we should keep to the swordmaster’s pace?” Renald shook his head. “I’m afraid you have me a bit confused, First Minister. One moment you seem to agree with me that Ewan is being too easy on the men, and the next you tell me that we’d be best off doing as he counsels. It almost seems that you’re trying to confuse me.”
The duke said this without giving it much thought, but almost as soon as the words crossed his lips, he found himself wondering if this was precisely what the first minister had meant to do. Mightn’t a traitor to the court have reason to do so?
Pillad replied with an easy laugh, though Renald thought he saw something else flash in those ghostly eyes. “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.