“I don’t intend to fight, Miri,” the king told her, but the way he looked away told her it was at least half a lie.

That is the way men speak when they think we don’t understand their cursed pride, Miri thought, but this time the ancient frustration frightened her more than it angered her. “Then what are you going to do, husband?”

To the Lord all praise! the bishop intoned loudly, as if to cover the sounds of royal discord.

To His son all praise!

To the garden that is Heaven where you shall live,

All praise!

Putnam then repeated the words in Nabbanai to complete the cantis, but did not immediately rise, as though he continued with silent prayer of his own.

Jeremias carefully fastened Simon’s other greave, then did the same with the poleyns that would protect the king’s knees. “Most of our men have never fought against the White Foxes,” Simon said as he watched. “Now they must face them, perhaps within the hour. They are afraid—superstitious and afraid.”

“As they should be. You and I know all too well what those monsters can do.”

“Just so, Miri. But the men know that I have faced them, as has Eolair. We can show them not to fear just by being there with them.”

“Just by being in bowshot for some Norn assassin to strike you down, you should say. Just by risking your life needlessly. You are the king, Simon!”

“And you are the queen.” He smiled. His bottom half was now covered in plate, and he lifted his arms so Jeremias and the two young squires could buckle the two sides of his cuirass into place. Simon’s arming shirt was embroidered, lovingly if not skillfully, with the Holy Tree—Miriamele remembered stitching it years before, in a time when she had reason to hope it would never be worn in an actual battle. Seeing it now brought a pang. For a moment the gleam of Simon’s broad white forelock, the streak the dragon’s blood had burned in his graying hair, stood out as though it shone with its own light. She caught her breath. Her heart was beating swiftly.

Oh, Simon, she thought—don’t throw your magic away on trifles! She was not exactly sure what the thought meant, but a grim foreboding had clutched her. “I wish you wouldn’t do this,” she said. “I am afraid.”

“You? The bravest woman who ever drew breath?” He smiled at her, and for a moment was nothing more than her jolly, maddening husband, the one she had loved for so long and through so much. “Come, now. I will not let anything harm me. I would not dare, my lady.”

She knew she could not stop him without a furious argument, and she also knew that the demands of Man’s Pride might seem foolish and dangerous to her but were real and important among men, especially for a king. “Promise me at least that you will stay in the back, then,” she said at last. “Promise me you will not ride up to the front where one of those demons can see you and shoot at you.”

He gave her a look—the always-love, but with a hint of grievance. “If you insist.”

“I do. Even if there are hundreds of Norns up there, it will not be worth your being killed. Remember the things we have still to do, Simon. Remember your promises to Isgrimnur.”

He nodded briskly. “I know. Don’t shame me, Miri. I remember. I remember all of it.”

She went to him then and kissed his cheek, felt the tangle of his beard scratching against her cheek. Just the smell of him, of his neck and hair, made her ache with desire. “So do I, husband. Every bit of our story. And I want to share the rest of it with you, not mourning you.”

He watched her leave the tent. She had known him so long that she knew exactly what his gaze felt like, even from behind.

Nezeru brought Saomeji water. He let her pour it into his mouth without a word or even meeting her eyes, as though he were a dying animal.

“By your skills you have saved us, Singer,” she told him, and her gratitude was not feigned. Saomeji did not answer but only lay back against the stone, breathing regularly but shallowly.

Their hiding place had at first seemed like no hiding place at all, a great split stone the size of a barn that sat near the top of the hill, broken in two halves like a dropped melon. The massive sections stood several paces apart, and anything between the two halves should have been visible from a long distance. But the Singer had used a skill that he called “stonesinging,” and now Nezeru’s entire company, including the mortal Jarnulf, their horses, and even monstrous Goh Gam Gar, sheltered between the rough hemispheres, apparently invisible to all searching eyes—at least those of mortals. Nezeru had watched a company of armed men search for them less than a bowshot away, oblivious to their hiding place, although Nezeru could see the mortals clearly, as if through no more than a faint mist.

“What do they see?” Jarnulf asked quietly as another trio of mortal soldiers blundered past, clearly unable to understand how the Norns had managed to vanish on a surrounded hilltop. Late afternoon was now fading into twilight; the growing darkness turned the mortals into clumsy children, stumbling and bumping into each other, unable to find safe footing in their heavy armor, even as their quarry sat observing them from only a few paces away.

“They see only stone,” said Saomeji, still laboring for breath. His eyes were as reddened as if he had just stepped out of a violent windstorm. “Just as they hear us no better than were we surrounded by the stone they imagine is there. But you still must keep your voices low.”

“You tried to lead us into a trap, slave,” Kemme hissed at Jarnulf.

“I will not bear that burden,” the mortal said. “I would have taken you across the road several leagues north of here. You know that is true.”

Kemme darted a look at Makho, but the chieftain’s face showed no liking for the dispute, so Kemme turned away again. He had seated himself at the edge of the stone, the boundary of Saomeji’s song-of-unseeing, and now he glared at the mortal searchers like a hungry animal. He raised his bow as if to aim. “Look at the vermin. I could spit all three of them with one shaft.”

“And then the rest would come running,” Makho said in a quiet but blade-sharp voice. “And they would all wonder how a Hikeda’ya arrow leaped out of a solid stone. Do not be so impatient, hand-brother. You will get your chance soon enough.” He turned to Jarnulf, and all outward emotion vanished from his face—Nezeru found it more chilling than his earlier angers. “You say you did not want this, but I am not sure. Give me answers or I will kill you myself, mortal, no matter the noise.” Everyone else had fallen silent, watching them. The chieftain held up the piece of torn green surcoat stitched with the twin dragon symbol. “This is the emblem of the Erkynguard, the soldiers who kill for the royal household that now rules in our old capital of Asu’a. Many hundreds of them surround this hill. What are they doing so far north of their own lands? Did you plan to meet them and exchange messages, or simply to lead us to them so that we Hikeda’ya would be killed, and you could claim bounty from the mortals?”

Saomeji stirred beside her, and Nezeru wondered what the Singer would do if it came to a fight. She had clearly underestimated his skills—few of even the most accomplished songmasters could manage what the halfblood had done to hide them.

Jarnulf met Makho’s stare, his face as empty of expression as the chieftain’s. Nezeru felt even more certain the mortal was Hikeda’ya-bred—surely no ordinary man of his race could hide his feelings so completely. Or did he think he was invincible? She knew Makho could not be defeated the same way twice; next time the chieftain would be prepared for the stranger’s surprising speed.