“Come,” Captain Mapstone said, “and we will find out what happens next.”

Karigan raised herself from the sweet grasses and followed in the tracks of the captain who limped on ahead. You, more than anyone, helped save the king today, the captain had said. Karigan had tossed a bunchberry petal to the breeze. It was supposed to bring a friend in need, and though she had thought so at the time, the arrival of the Green Riders had not been the result of the bunchberry petal. Did the bunchberry petals lose their efficacy after a certain amount of time?

She no sooner asked herself the question when something small and white, like a snowflake, drifted out of the sky. She held her hand out and the bunchberry petal settled on her palm.

How do I interpret this? Am I my own friend in need? I can depend on myself? She blew it off her palm, smiling for the first time in hours.

She could depend on herself, yet hadn’t she been surrounded by friends the entire time? Friends who had helped her along in her journey or who tried to protect her? Where would she be without them?

She paused and called out to the captain. “I’ll join you in a moment.”

Captain Mapstone nodded, and Karigan walked over to where the wounded rested. Among them, huddled in a coarse blanket, slept Alton D’Yer. In the dusk his expression was one of peace without a hint of the day’s strivings; no sign of pain or worry; simply the release of sleep, and with it, a certain innocence.

Karigan shuddered to think of what black arrows might have done to this young man. She had seen it all too vividly, too many times. First F’ryan Coblebay, then Joy Overway, and those who died today. It was not simply death, but a twisted, dark, and tortured path. What made Alton different from the others was that she had grown to know him, while the others had been strangers. With Alton, she could put a face with a name; a face that was alive with laughter and dreams and the future.

She knelt beside him, and when he shifted in his sleep, she adjusted the blanket about his shoulders.

Today he had stood between her and black arrows. Her fingers brushed his cheek and she felt the warmth of him.

“Thank you, Alton,” she whispered. “I only hope I’m worthy of what you did for me today. You are a true friend.” And perhaps more than a friend, but confusion fluttered in her heart at the thought.

She made sure he rested as comfortably as possible on the ground where he slept, the regular rise and fall of his chest reassuring. She left him reluctantly and joined the able-bodied survivors of the ambush who sat in a circle in the waning sun. Among them were Horse Marshal Martel, a couple of his officers, and Beryl Spencer.

It was as if the king and his followers had become primitive hunters, back to the dark days before Sacoridia was what it had become, when folk sat in council on the rough ground, and told the news of the lands in stories by a fire.

“I’ve posted sentries should any of the enemy decide to return.” Horse Marshal Martel sat very erect in his shortcoat of deep navy, a red sash knotted at his waist. Silver buttons and a gorget about his neck gleamed in the dwindling light. His gold marshal’s shoulder cords, and the red-plumed helmet placed carefully in the grass beside him, made him an impeccably well turned out officer, though he had discarded his breast plate earlier. Even the formal uniform of the Green Riders did not compare to his field uniform. “We should make camp for the night.”

“It sounds sensible,” King Zachary said. “It would be preferable not to move the wounded tonight, at least not far, and I think most of us are deeply tired. However, I am concerned about what my brother is up to.”

“You should be, Excellency,” Beryl Spencer said. “He planned to march on your castle with more than twice what you have garrisoned there.”

Martel glanced at Captain Mapstone. “Do you trust her word? Is she not the one who tried to kill you?”

The captain nodded tiredly. “She speaks the truth. The compulsion placed on her by the Eletian is mostly gone, as far as I can tell. There is still a residue of the spell, but I believe it is fading. Besides, the message brought to us by Karigan confirms Amilton’s intent.”

Karigan squirmed as the horse marshal’s light gray eyes fell on her.

“Then we ride,” he said.

“Just like that?” the captain asked. “You won’t know anything about the prince’s force or its position.”

Martel stuck his chin out resolutely. It was covered by a dense but closely cropped flaxen beard. “My soldiers are well trained in reconnaissance, not to mention fighting if it comes to—”

“With all due respect, Marshal,” Beryl broke in, “your soldiers almost panicked at the sight of this battle’s aftermath. You expect them to face five hundred of the enemy?”

“Beryl—” Captain Mapstone said in warning.

Martel’s eyes flashed in anger. “I will not have this Rider insult—”

King Zachary raised his hand to stop them. “Hold, my friends, hold. Captain Mapstone is right. We cannot rush in without knowing what we are up against. And the horse marshal is right, too. His riders are trained for reconnaissance.”

“Do we know something of what we’re up against, then?” asked one of the horse marshal’s officers.

“Major?” said King Zachary.

Beryl inclined her head to the king. “Before we left Mirwellton—the governor and I—” She hastened a quick glance at the old man who sat some distance away with D’rang under the watchful eyes of cavalry guards. “—the governor mustered Mirwellian regulars and hired some merc companies to follow the prince to take the castle.”