“His spine is shattered below the neck, Highness,” the healer replied. “If he were to live, he wouldn’t walk again. And he won’t live.”
“I . . .” Marven coughed, eyes suddenly wide as they found her face, “I killed a Kuritai, Kerisha. Did they tell you?”
Kerisha, she knew, was the name of Countess Marven. “Yes, my love,” she said, working the cloth over his brow and along his cheek. “They told me.”
“What’s wrong?” he demanded, suddenly wary. “Why are you angry?”
“I’m not angry,” she said. “I am proud. Very proud.”
“You’re . . . only kind when you’re angry,” he muttered, easing a little. “A tongue that could cut silk, the Fief Lord always said . . . The queen, though.” He paused to smile in fond reflection. “You might have met your match in her. However, I think she’ll be amenable now . . . That castle you always wanted . . .”
“Yes,” Lyrna assured him. “I’m sure she will.”
“The boys . . .” His voice grew softer, eyes dimming as his head sank farther into the pillow. “You were right . . . No soldiering for them . . . There’s gold in the Reaches, lots of it . . . We’ll send them there . . .”
He slept for a time, untroubled by the whimpers and cries of the wounded crowding the tent. Messengers and captains came to her throughout the night, all turned away by Murel and Iltis. She stayed and watched Count Marven until the swell of his chest had stopped and all colour faded from his face.
“Murel,” she said, the lady moving to crouch at her side. The flesh around her left eye was a deep shade of purple and she bore a three-inch row of stitches across her cheek. “Make a note. A grant of land for Countess Kerisha Marven of Nilsael and sufficient funds for the construction of a castle.”
“Yes, Highness.” Murel hesitated, gaze intent on Lyrna’s face. “You must sleep, my queen.”
She shook her head. Sleep meant dreams, and she knew what they would show her. “Ask Brother Kehlan for something to keep me awake. And tell Brother Hollun I require a full account of our losses.”
• • •
The blond sister named herself as Cresia, standing with head lowered as the body of her Aspect burned behind her. Lyrna had watched them say their words, these few survivors of a greatly diminished Order, each stepping forward with a story of kindness, wisdom or courage. Lord Nortah was also there, along with Brother Sollis and many of the Sixth Order. The Lord Marshal had faltered during his words, a tale of their time in the Martishe Forest, left unfinished as he fell silent, staring at the body on the pyre as if in incomprehension. “He never got to meet his nieces and nephews,” he said finally, voice faint and empty of feeling. “For he was my brother, and I know they would have loved him.”
“By any measure Aspect Caenis was a great man,” Lyrna had said. “A greatness revealed only recently, but bright enough to outshine us all. It will be known forever more that this man never faltered in his course, never shied from the hardest duty and gave everything in service to Realm and Faith.”
There were other fires to light of course, more words to say. Murel, Iltis and Davoka waited at Benten’s pyre and the plain was liberally dotted with more. In accordance with tradition soldiers from the same regiment were being committed to the flames together, meaning there were dozens of fires, rather than thousands.
“Your Order has made its choice then?” she asked Sister Cresia.
The young woman hugged herself tight, hair covering her lowered face like a veil. “Yes, Highness. Though I begged them to choose another.” Her hair parted as she lifted her face to regard the pyre, Aspect Caenis now just a dark shape amidst the flames. “I can never be him. He was . . . great, as you said.”
“War has a tendency to rob us of choices, Aspect. Get some rest. Tomorrow I shall require an accounting of your numbers.”
“There are twenty-three of us left, Highness,” Cresia told her. “The Seventh Order was never overly numerous, perhaps four hundred souls at its strongest.”
“You will rebuild, in time.”
Cresia lowered her gaze once more and Lyrna had little difficulty discerning her thoughts.
• • •
The early-morning sun played over the river’s churning current, raising a fine mist from the waters. Aspect Arlyn stood alone on the bank, his red armour gone now, a tall figure in a blue cloak no doubt taken from the body of a fallen brother. Brother Ivern stood nearby, bowing with a weary smile as she approached. Lyrna wondered if he was there as guard or gaoler.
“Has he spoken?” she asked.
“A little, Highness. He asked after Aspect Grealin, and Lord Vaelin.”
“What did you tell him?”
Ivern seemed puzzled by the question. “Everything. He is our Aspect.”
