"I know," Neil replied.

"Well, then put a stop to it now. Admit your injuries and withdraw."

For a moment Neil honestly thought she was joking, but then her tone registered.

"That's impossible," he said. "That's what Sir Alareik wants."

"Yes. It's what I want, too."

"Is this the queen's word?"

"No. She bleeds the same hot island blood you do, and you convinced her. I think she really believes you will win."

"And you don't?"

"You can barely move your sword arm. Even a little exertion leaves you gasping."

"Well, then I'll lose," Neil said. "That's still better than not fighting."

"You're her champion. If you fight and fall, it weakens her. If you refuse to fight, it shows she's really determined to carry out this embassy, to avoid distraction, that she has you under control."

"If she orders me to withdraw, I will."

"She won't."

"She won't because you're wrong," Neil replied. "Anything I do other than fight and win will weaken her. So I'll fight and I'll win."

"That's pure genius," Berrye said, her voice larded with sarcasm.

He didn't see much point in replying, and after a moment she sighed.

"Very well. This fellow you just spoke to-was he really trying to help you? If you chose to fight on foot, won't that just let Wishilm know about the trouble with your arms?"

"Probably. But I don't think Everwulf came to trick me."

"Why, then?"

"To make his peace with me and tell me good-bye."

"You can still stop this," Alis murmured.

Muriele nodded absently. The sun was breaking through the mist, crowning the poplars and firs at the edge of the green, which lay on the eastern outskirts of town. It wasn't, of course, very green but rather an expanse of muddy ground churned up by horses and wagons, soldiers practicing, and children playing games. There were bits of grass here and there, but on balance Muriele thought it probably ought to be called a "brown."

There was no seating as such, although a chair had been provided for her. Everyone else-and it really did look as if it might be everyone in town-was standing or squatting around the perimeter, waiting expectantly. The Wishilm knight was already on the field, his suit of lord's plate beginning to pick up the gleam of the rising sun. Neil hadn't appeared yet.

"He'll be killed," Alis pursued.

"He's a knight," she replied.

"A badly injured knight. A knight the leics said should never fight again. A knight you brought along to ease into less martial professions."

"He will be of no use to me if I allow Hansa to brand him a coward," Muriele said.

"I cannot believe you are so cold," Alis said.

Muriele felt a flare of anger but let it flicker down.

"I love that boy," she said after a moment. "He has more heart and soul than any man I have ever known, and I owe him more than I can possibly say. But he is from Skern, Alis. I could make him turn from this, but it would wither him. It would destroy him. For a man like him, death is better."

"So you send him to his death?"

Muriele forced a little laugh. "You did not see him at Cal Azroth," she said.

The crowd suddenly erupted in cheers and heckling that were nearly matched, and Muriele wondered if Neil's hounds were from the south part of town and his ravens from the north. But nothing about Bitaenstath seemed so neatly divided.

Neil wore armor easily as bright as Sir Alareik's. It should have been: It never had been worn before. His last harness had had to be cut from him after the battle of the waerd. The new armor was very plain, made in the style of the islands, without ornamentation, formed for battle and not for court.

He was mounted as Wishilm was, but something about the way he sat seemed strange.

Alis caught it first. "He's got it in his left," she said.

That was it. Neil had his lance couched under his left arm. His shield rested heavily on his right.

"That doesn't make sense," she said. That puts point against point. His shield is useless; it's on the wrong side of the horse."

"The same is true for Wishilm," Alis pointed out.

"What is this?" Sir Alareik muttered as they raised visors. "You've got your spear in the wrong hand."

"It's the hand I want it in," Neil shot back.

"It isn't done."

"You challenged me, and yet I let you choose the place and the weapons. Now you're going to begrudge how I choose to wield my spear?"

"This is some trick. It won't work."

Neil shook his head. "It's not a trick," he said. "My right arm is hurt. I think you know that. I can't hold a lance in it, and in fact I don't think I would be able to hold a shield up to take a blow."

Alareik's puzzlement was plain. "Do you wish to withdraw?" he asked.

"Withdraw? No, Sir Alareik. I'm going to kill you. This isn't a formal list; I'll stay to your left, where your shield won't be of any use to you. If you try to bring it around, you'll hit your horse in the head, won't you? So we'll come together point to point, and I'll drive my spear through one of your eyes, and that will be that."

"I'll do the same."

Neil smiled thinly. He leaned forward, keeping his gaze fixed on the man's smoke-blue eyes.

"I don't care," he whispered.

Then he turned his horse and rode for his end of the list. He reached it, turned, and waited.

He patted his horse's neck. "I don't care," he confided to his mount.

The horn blew, and he gave Ohfahs the heel. His left arm was starting to hurt. If he lifted or extended it, he knew it would cramp, but it worked just fine for couching a lance. As the stallion gathered speed, he let his shield fall away, concentrating only on putting the point where he wanted it.

ANNE STOOD on the bow of the royal ferry and stared up at the walls and towers of Eslen, wondering at how alien they seemed. She had lived all but one of her seventeen winters on that hill, within that fortress. The island's forests and greens had been her playground. Shouldn't she feel like she was coming home?

But she didn't. Not in the least.

When they reached the slip and the boat was secure, her horse, Faster, was brought around. She mounted it for the procession through the city but paused at the great Fastness gate, frowning at the massive stone of its construction.

"Majesty?" Cauth asked. "Is something the matter?"

Her pulse was thumping strangely in her neck, and she couldn't seem to draw a deep breath.

"Wait," she said. "Just wait a moment."

She turned and looked back the way they had come, across the slow flood of the Dew River and the green fields of Newland beyond, to the malends on the distant dike turning against the blue sky. She knew that all she wanted to do was cross that water again and ride, keep riding until she was so far away that no one had ever heard of Eslen or Crotheny or Anne Dare.