Zacharias shifted, raising himself up on an elbow. For an instant, he could see the other side of the fire without the flames sparking and twisting in his vision.
There was no one there.
He dropped, breath punched out of him. Mist streamed over the stars. Out in the forest, a wolf howled. Closer, a night creature rustled through the rocks.
Wolfhere did not move. From this angle, Zacharias saw through the flames again.
The woman’s figure was still there, faded but clear. She was a shadow. He was seeing the shadow of a woman through the flames.
He began to push himself up just as a man crouched silently beside him and a strong hand gripped his shoulder.
“Let it be, Zacharias,” murmured the prince. “Now is not the time.”
“When will that time come?” he whispered harshly.
Sanglant did not relinquish that grip, forcing him down firmly until the ground pressed against his back. “When we’re no longer fighting for our lives.”
“That’s me! That’s me!” cried Blessing exultantly as her father rode out at dawn, resplendent in armor, tabard, scarlet cloak, and his magnificent dragon helm, with his army arrayed behind him. His banners carried no sigil; he rode with simple cloth-of-gold standards streaming behind him, in recognition of his royal birth, however left-handed it might be, and his daughter’s imperial descent.
For Anna, waiting out the skirmishes was the hardest part of traveling in the prince’s war band. Prince Sanglant was a grand fighter, but a reckless father.
“Come down from the wall, Your Highness,” said Heribert nervously. “You might fall.”
Blessing ignored him, bouncing up and down excitedly on the ruined wall as she watched the soldiers ride away. “I’ll fight next time!” She brandished her wooden sword, which was about the size of a kitchen knife, poking and thrusting and hacking at the wind. Pebbles clacked and clattered off the wall to thump onto the ground in time to the pounding of hooves fading into the distance as the prince and his soldiers vanished down the track.
Anna shifted anxiously as Heribert simply swept Blessing off the wall and carried her—the little girl was too dignified to struggle—to the half-ruined watchtower. They had to skirt the traps; Matto and Everwin set the last two in place once they had all ducked into the tower. The camp lay silent around them, awning, tents, traveling gear stacked neatly, although in fact everything of real value had been stowed in the watchtower. She scrambled up the stairs after Heribert and found a place beside him at the top, where she could see out over the valley. Blessing had tucked her face into Heribert’s shoulder, yawning mightily.
Fog concealed the valley except for the flames burning at the top of the two gate towers, symbols of Villam resistance. The defensive walls of Walburg looked stout and welcoming right now, compared to the crumbling watchtower and the little band of six men, not counting the clerics and the Eagle, left behind to defend Blessing. At times like this she was sorry she had left Gent and the safe routine of Mistress Suzanne’s workshop. Fool, fool, fool. She squeezed back tears, sure a sob was about to burst out of her, but Matthias had trained her well. If she cried, the Eika might hear her. She had never forgotten the lessons she had learned hiding from the Eika in Gent. She knew how to swallow her fear and keep still, no matter what.
The sun was rising in the east, but the wind had died. Fog thinned into wisps along the two rivers. The sound of drums beating loud and fast rose from within the castle walls. This was surely not the doing of the prince, who preferred to approach a fight in silence. Horns joined into the rancor, incoherent blasts dragged out like the wailing of a stubborn two-year-old. Between the towers, the gate of stout timbers braced with thick iron bands swung open. Armored warriors advanced one by one to form a line before the open portal.
The Quman, whose defensive works were set more than a bowshot from the towers, scrambled for their horses, expecting the keep defenders to charge at any moment. For every mounted warrior who appeared at the gate, five Quman riders came forward to counter them. The wings made them seem ominous and even greater in number than they were. At last, after the banner appeared at the portal, drooping in the dying wind, the lord of the keep rode out to take up the foremost position. He turned to face his troop of four dozen mounted soldiers, his back to the Quman as if daring them to charge. Yet the Quman only formed up, waiting for orders or suspicious of a trap.
After a short span the lord of Walburg turned to face his foe, lowering his lance as if in salute.
Prince Sanglant’s force, having reached the bottom of the wooded slope, broke out of the forest and onto the river plain. They advanced at a trot. As yet, a copse of scrub and open orchard obscured them from the main Quman army, assembled before the gate. The scouts stationed to guard against a flank attack fled back toward their camp, occasionally loosing an arrow toward the prince’s force to keep them off guard.
