The last remaining rider, far away with the foragers, had heard the call and now turned to see the riderless horse. He lifted his own horn to his lips. The alarm call echoed down the valley, then a few moments’ later was answered by other horns farther to the north.

Nezeru felt she was caught in a waking dream. All her fears of discovery had come true.

Kemme ripped the last of the surcoat loose, then kicked the dead man down the slope with such fury that the corpse uprooted a few saplings and carried them with it. The older Sacrifice turned and began running up the hillside, back toward their camp.

Nezeru sprinted after him, using her hands for support as she bent close to the slope, following his path of broken branches. One of them at least must survive to warn the others, and she no longer trusted Kemme’s impulsiveness. She had not created this particular folly, and although she might have failed her earlier charge, she was still a Sacrifice, one of the queen’s chosen Talons. She could not let another failure bring disgrace to her family and clan.

The hillside had been alive with the crying of horns for long moments, but now she heard something else—a low rumble sweeping through the valley, as if the earth itself had begun to roll and twitch in anger. As they topped the ridgeline, Nezeru looked back through the trees and saw a great force of armed, mounted men thundering along the ancient road from the northern end of the valley, an ocean wave of green surcoats befoamed with silvery helmets and lances glittering in the morning sun—a force of a hundred armored men or more. Some of the riders were already peeling off from the main troop, steering their mounts up the very slope on which she and Kemme were climbing, getting closer with each harsh but measured breath she took. Nezeru could feel the drumming of their hooves through her feet.

We have served our queen badly, was all she could think. Hea-hai! We all will die as failures.

The camp was full of frantic activity, like an ant’s nest exposed by the blade of a plow. “Where is the king?” Miriamele demanded.

“He is in the arming tent, Majesty,” said Eolair, turning away from a group of soldiers.

“The arming tent? We have an arming tent?”

“I am afraid so,” he said. “At least since word of the Norn attack came to us.”

She was about to scold him for letting the king play at soldiers, but Eolair looked frail, as if he had been ill. My God, she thought, he looks nearly as old as my grandfather did when he died. Poor Eolair. Do we put too much upon him? “Just tell me where it is, Lord Steward, if you please.”

“Let me take you there, Majesty.”

“I think you would be better employed with the soldiers—or perhaps separating truth from rumor. I have been told several times already that five hundred Norns are in the hills, sent from Stormspike to assassinate us. A force of five hundred so far south, traveling in daylight, and this is the first we have heard? That seems unlikely to me.”

“And to me, my queen.” Eolair shook his head. “But do not doubt there are Norns, whatever the numbers. Sir Irwyn saw them before they fled into the trees on the hilltop, and Irwyn is a trustworthy man. He was at the defense of Asu’a, so he knows them of old. And I told you of my nephew’s encounter with a giant. The danger is nothing to scoff at, mistress, if you will pardon me for saying so.”

She tried to calm herself a little. Eolair was right, as he often was, even if it did not suit her mood. “I have no complaint with sending soldiers to track down these killers. And if they are Norns, they are some fifty leagues beyond their own borders, which is also something worth worrying about—in fact, I have been worrying since we heard Lady Alva’s story in Elvritshalla. But I can make no sense out of why my husband feels he has any need to involve himself. That is why we brought all these soldiers and knights, is it not?”

“Of course, Majesty.”

“I’m glad we agree. Point me toward this ‘arming tent’.”

•   •   •

But for the array of candles standing on a chest, the tent was so dark that at first Miriamele could see nothing but shadows and hear nothing but the murmur of a quiet voice reciting the ancient prayer, the Soldier’s Cantis.

Though I stand in a furrow of the field, one among many

And though I know not whether I shall be mown

Or left to wither beneath the sun

I know that my Redeemer promised to be my guide and my teacher

That in his care I will grow again some day in the Lord’s garden,

Which is Heaven,

Among green things and by clear waters . . .

“Simon?” she called. “Are you here?”

“Yes, my dear. You need not rise for Her Majesty, Jeremias, because you’ll tip me over.”

As her vision improved she made out her husband standing with one foot on a weapons chest while Sir Jeremias knelt at his feet, fastening the buckles of a greave. Simon was mostly armored, but his chest plate, the one Miriamele had thought was only for public show, still leaned against the tent wall. Two squires stood at wide-eyed near-attention behind the king, and Bishop Putnam, senior of the priests traveling with the royal party, was kneeling not far from Jeremias so that he could use the light of the candles to read from the Book of Aedon. “What, precisely, are you doing, husband?” the queen asked in what she hoped was a measured voice “And you, Lord Chamberlain?”

Jeremias looked up at her, and for a moment he might have been the guilty boy she had first met. “If the Lord Chamberlain is p-present,” he said with the hint of a stutter, “it is his duty to dress the king.”

And His angels sing in sweet voices

Of the goodness of our God.

And the song they sing is this,

‘Because you have heard the Redeemer’s voice,

You need fear no foreigner, no barbarian, no beast

Who flee the Lord’s sight and carry evil in their hearts.

You need fear no storm, no thunderbolt, no wrack of earth

Because that which is in you is His, and He knows you always

Be you surrounded by enemies, be you ever outnumbered.’

“Just so,” Simon said. “And dressing the king ought to include armor, don’t you think?”

She could now make out the high color in his cheeks, as though he had been drinking. “It’s only another sort of thing to wear,” her husband said. “And it seems good sense when there may be fighting.”

“It’s more than that, Majesty.” Jeremias spoke with such emphasis that the bishop hesitated in his recitation. “The king’s armor is a sacred thing. A holy thing.”

After a pause, His Eminence Putnam continued.

Because you have set your love on Him, therefore will He deliver you.

He is enthroned on high that He can see your heart, and that by the hand

Of His redeeming Son it has been cleansed,

And you will hear His mighty call when it comes,

That will on some day, perhaps this day,

Summon you home.

Putnam’s droning irritated her. She wanted to speak to her husband, but what could be worse than interrupting a prayer at a time like this? But this cantis was a prayer she had never liked because it made death in battle seem somehow a victory. Miriamele had seen too many dead, especially too many she had loved, for the thought of Heaven’s mercy to soothe her much. Those who fell might find a holy welcome with their Father and His son, but that did not make it easier for those left behind. Those who would have to go on alone.

“It may be a holy thing,” she said, moving closer to her husband so she could lower her voice. “I do not pretend to such wisdom. But it is certainly a foolish thing. Simon, you cannot take such a risk. There may be nothing like the rumored five hundred, but Irwyn says these Norns killed Sir Jubal with an arrow from a great distance. If you fight, you will be their chief target.”