He removed the pipe from his mouth, tapping down the tabac.

"Rodel," Rajabi said. "The Seanchan. . . ."

Rodel held up a finger, situating his pipe before continuing. "The bard started by juggling three balls. Then he asked us if we thought he could do another. We cheered him on. He went to four, then five, then six. With each ball he added, our applause grew greater, and he always asked if we thought he could do another. Of course we said yes.

"Seven, eight, nine. Soon he had ten balls going in the air, flying in a pattern so complex that I couldn't track them. He had to strain to keep them going; he kept having to reach down and grab balls that he nearly missed. He was too lost in concentration to ask us if he should add another, but the crowd called for it. Eleven! Go for eleven! And so, his assistant tossed another ball into the mess."

Ituralde puffed.

"He dropped them?" Rajabi asked. Rodel shook his head. "That last 'ball' wasn't actually a ball at all. It was some kind of Illuminator's trick; once it got halfway to the bard, it flashed and gave off a sudden burst of light and smoke. By the time our vision cleared, the bard was gone, and ten balls were lined up on the floor. When I looked around, I found him sitting at one of the tables with the rest of the diners, drinking a cup of wine and flirting with Lord Finndal's wife."

Poor Rajabi looked completely dumbfounded. He liked his answers neat and straightforward. Ituralde usually felt the same way, but these days—with their unnaturally overcast skies and sense of perpetual gloom—made him philosophic.

He reached out and took the worn, folded sheet of paper off the table from beneath his tabac pouch. He handed it to Rajabi.

" 'Strike hard against the Seanchan,' " Rajabi read. " 'Push them away, force them into their boats and back across their bloody ocean. I'm counting on you, old friend. King Alsalam.' " Rajabi lowered the letter. "I know of his orders, Rodel. I didn't come into this because of him. I came because of you."

"Yes, but / fight because of him," Ituralde said. He was a king's man; he always would be. He stood up, tapping out his tabac and grinding the embers beneath the heel of his boot. He set the pipe aside and took the letter from Rajabi, then walked to the door.

He needed to make a decision. Stay and fight, or flee for a worse location, but gain a little more time?

The shack groaned and wind shook the trees as Ituralde stepped outside into the overcast morning. The shed wasn't Ogier-built, of course. It was too flimsy for that. This stedding had been abandoned for a long time. His men camped amid the trees. Hardly the best location for a war camp, but one made soup with the spices on hand; the stedding was far too useful to pass up. Another man might have fled to a city and hidden behind its walls, but here in these trees, the One Power was useless. Negating the Seanchan damane was better than walls, no matter how high.

We have to stay, Ituralde thought, watching his men work, digging in, erecting a palisade. He hated the thought of cutting down trees in a stedding. He'd known a few Ogier in his time, and respected them. These massive oaks probably held some lingering strength from the days when the Ogier had lived here. Cutting them down was a crime. But you did what you had to. Running might gain him more time, but it might just as easily lose him time. He had a few days here before the Seanchan hit him. If he could dig in well, he might force them into a siege. The stedding would make them hesitant, and the forests would work to the advantage of Ituralde's smaller force.

He hated letting himself get pinned in. That was probably why he'd considered for so long, even though, deep down, he'd already known that it was time to stop running. The Seanchan had finally caught him.

He continued along the ranks, nodding to working men, letting himself be seen. He had forty thousand troops left, which was a marvel, considering the odds they had faced. These men should have deserted. But they'd seen him win impossible battle after impossible battle, tossing ball after ball into the air to greater and greater applause. They thought he was unstoppable. They didn't understand that when one tossed more balls into the air, it wasn't just the show that became more spectacular.

The fall at the end grew more spectacular as well.

He kept his dark thoughts to himself as he and Rajabi continued through the forested camp, inspecting the palisade. It was progressing nicely, the men setting thick tree trunks into freshly dug troughs. After his inspection, Ituralde nodded to himself. "We stay, Rajabi. Pass the word."

"Some of the others say that staying here means dying for sure," Rajabi responded.

"They're wrong," Ituralde said.

"But—"

"Nothing is sure, Rajabi," Ituralde said. "Fill these trees inside the palisade with archers; they'll be almost as effective as towers. We'll need to set up a killing field outside. Cut down as many trees around the palisade here as possible, then set the logs inside as barriers, a second line of retreat. We'll hold strong. Perhaps I'm wrong about those Taraboners, and they'll ride to aid us. Or maybe the king has a hidden army stashed away to defend us. Blood and ashes, maybe we'll fight them off here on our own. We'll see how much they like fighting without their damane. We'll survive."

Rajabi straightened visibly, growing confident. That was the kind of talk Ituralde knew he expected. Like the others, Rajabi trusted the Little Wolf. They didn't believe he could fail.

Ituralde knew better. But if you were going to die, you did it with dignity. The young Ituralde had often dreamed of wars, of the glory of battle. The old Ituralde knew there was no such thing as glory to be had in battle. But there was honor.

"My Lord Ituralde!" a runner called, trotting along the inside of the unfinished palisade wall. He was a boy, young enough that the Seanchan would probably let him live. Otherwise Ituralde would have sent the lad, and those like him, away.

"Yes?" Ituralde asked, turning. Rajabi stood like a small mountain at his side.

"A man," the boy said, puffing. "The scouts caught him walking into the sledding."

"Come to fight for us?" Ituralde said. It was not uncommon for an army to draw recruits. There were always those tempted by the lure of glory, or at least by the lure of steady meals.

"No, my Lord," the boy said, puffing. "He says he's come to see you."

"Seanchan?" Rajabi barked.

The boy shook his head. "No. But he's got nice clothes."

Some lord's messenger, then. Domani, or perhaps a Taraboner renegade. Whoever he was, he could hardly make their situation worse. "And he came alone?"

"Yes, sir."

Brave man. "Bring him, then," Ituralde said.

"Where will you receive him, my Lord?"

"What?" Ituralde snapped. "You think I'm some fancy merchant with a palace? The field here will do. Go get him, but take your time getting back. And make sure he's properly guarded."

The boy nodded and ran off. Ituralde waved over some soldiers and sent them running for Wakeda and the other officers. Shimron was dead, burned to char by a damane's fireball. Too bad, that. Ituralde would rather have kept him than many of the others.

Most of the officers arrived before the stranger. Lanky Ankaer. One-eyed Wakeda, who might otherwise have been a handsome man. Squat Melarned. Youthful Lidrin, who continued to follow Ituralde after his father's death.

"What is this I hear?" Wakeda asked, folding his arms as he strode up. "We're staying in this death trap? Rodel, we don't have the troops to resist. If they come, we'll be trapped here."

"You're right," Ituralde said simply.

Wakeda turned to the others, then back to Ituralde, a little of his irritation deflated in the face of Ituralde's frank answer. "Well . . . why don't we run, then?" He blustered a lot less now than he had just months ago, when Ituralde had first begun this campaign.