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“It’s a fine blade, I’m sure,” she bit out. “But why haven’t you given it to Erida? Or back to the Elders?”
The squire could only shake his head, barely able to answer. The truth sounded foolish, even in his own mind. But Valeri was undeniable, her eyes like two moons.
“Something in me, a voice I do not know, tells me I shouldn’t. That I have to wait. Does that make any sense at all?”
Valeri looked to the fire, watching the flames for a long moment. Her breath wheezed. “Perhaps it is the gods of the Ward, the gods of Kasa, speaking to you so,” she finally said. “Or it is simply your own good instinct.”
But the voice is not my own.
“I dream of it every night,” he said, voice flat. He’d built a wall inside himself, trying to keep the memories at bay. “That sword, the red steel. Sir Grandel and the Norths. All of them slaughtered, even the Elders, immortal as they were. Everything fell before that army, before that man. I see it every time I close my eyes.” Andry dropped her fingers and ran a hand over his own face. A numbness stole over him. “Did Father talk of battle like this? I can’t remember.”
I was only six years old when he died, lost in a fight that meant nothing, for little more than a bend in the river, another glimmer in Galland’s crown.
Valeri did not hesitate to shake her head. “Never like this,” she said quickly, looking to the shield on the wall. “Never like this.”
Andry followed her gaze. The blue star with the scratch down the middle was as familiar as his own two hands. It was the emblem of his father and his father alone, earned not by a long bloodline but by loyalty to the crown, devotion to the dead king, and the ultimate sacrifice on a distant field. He knew the star better than his father’s face, which he only carried in flashes. A merry smile, a swoop of auburn hair, long arms always reaching to scoop him up or pull his mother close. Sir Tedros Trelland was as mist in his memories, fleeting and impossible to hold.
His grave is empty too, his body never recovered from the mud of the field. It will be only bones now, if anything at all.
“Do you believe me?” Andry whispered, to his mother and the shield. The blue star seemed to glare. “Do you believe what I saw? What I heard?” He took a shaky breath. “What Istillhear?”
Valeri took him firmly by the shoulders. She looked up at her son, wide-eyed.
“I do.”
Her faith settled around him like a suit of armor.
“Then we need to make arrangements.” He stepped out of her hands with a will.More arrangements, for some are already made.His letters were on the road and the sail, traveling by courier and boat. Most were bound for Kasa. One had already received a reply. “And you need to be ready to travel.”
Valeri’s face fell. Andry wished he could tear the sickness right out of her chest.
“Madero, you know I can’t—”
“I won’t hear it, Mama.” Already he saw her hacking coughs on the deck of the ship as they fled, putting the Long Sea between themselves and a Spindleborn army. “We go together, or not at all.”
There was no fear in Valeri Trelland, a lady born of Kin Kiane. She flattened her palm against her chest to steady her own breathing.
“Then we go.”
The Hill of Heroes basked in the sunlight, green and gold as the Gallish flag. It was another island in the river delta, walled like the palace. Countless tombs and headstones marched in endless rows: knights and great lords fallen for Galland. The graves of the kings crowned the Hill, marked by statues and flowering trees. The capital of Ascal was home to more than half a million people, but one would never know it from these still, green lawns.
Andry saw the Hill’s shadow every morning from the training yards of the New Palace, the silhouettes of the stones like fingers against the sky. They reached for him now, white marble and black granite, their grip unbreakable.With me,they hissed in a thousand weaving voices.With me,Sir Grandel moaned, dying again.
His breath came hard and fast as he walked, his pulse thrumming in his ears. Sweat dripped through his short-cropped hair. He tried to think not of Sir Grandel’s corpse, but of his tombstone. It was already waiting, flanked by headstones for the Norths, surrounded by a forest of graves for dead knights. The funeral would be a large affair, with even the Queen in attendance. It had somehow taken weeks to plan, though the coffins would be empty.
He passed through the gates of the cemetery with the rest of the squires, wellborn boys in service to the great knights of the kingdom. The knights themselves were all on horseback, in gleaming armor with cloaks of all colors. Behind the squires came the pages, some as young as seven, dressed in light summer tunics to match their knights. Andry glanced back to see a pair shoving each other silently. In jest or rivalry, he did not know. Most squires grew out of that sort of thing.
Most.
An elbow dug into Andry’s ribs. He barely felt it. There was far more to think about—getting his mother out of Ascal, the festering army at the border, the empty graves ahead, the sword hidden, the Spindle torn, the whispers that greeted him every morning.
“I’m talking to you, Trelland,” someone said harshly. The elbow struck again.
Andry clenched his jaw. He did not need to look to know it was Davel Monne, who the boys all called Lemon for his name, his yellow hair, and especially his sour disposition. Like the rest of the squires, Lemon’s hair was cut short, but it sprouted like horrible weeds.
“I deserve to know what happened, same as you,” Lemon hissed, his pale face spotted with freckles. His red surcoat flapped in the breeze, the falcon sigil of the North family worked in eye-catching silver. Andry’s own was gray quartered with sky blue for Sir Grandel. “I was Sir Edgar’s squire. It’s my right to know.”
Andry kept silent. Even stupid Lemon knew the story being passed through the halls of the palace, the falsehoods born of the Queen: Jydi raiders, a slaughter in the hills of the border. Other rumors were being woven too. The most popular was a Treckish ambush meant to look like the Jydi, soldiers disguised in furs with axes instead of swords.
