Unlike Blaise, who never saw her, Ranald has a memory of his mother.

Two or three images, in fact, though when he first spoke of them as a child he was sternly told by his tutor that these were false recollections, unworthy fantasies for a warrior-to-be. Ranald was two years old when his mother died. Boys that age could not remember things, the tutor decreed. When Ranald tried, not long after, to ask his father about the recurring image he had of a red-haired woman singing to him by candlelight, Galbert flatly forbade him, on pain of a whipping, to mention it again. Ranald was six years old. It was the last time he'd attempted to confide something of importance to his father. Or, he realizes abruptly now, to anyone else.

The memory of the red-haired woman has stayed with him all these years, though he has never again spoken of it. It occurs to him, for the first time, that he might have mentioned it to Rosala. It might have been something to share with her. He guides his horse with a quick pressure of his left knee and, ducking with a grunt under a wide side-sweeping blow, delivers a backhand slash of his own, ringing it hard off Ademar's armour. The king is prone to such flat, sidelong blows he notes, a part of his mind still registering such things, as if there is anything he is going to be able to do about it. I should have told her, he is thinking. Rosala might have wanted to hear of such a memory; in the beginning, at any rate. In the later part of their time together he was less certain of her interest but that, truly, was his own fault.

Just as it is his own fault that he is short of breath already. He is feeling the effects of this morning's ale as a thick heaviness in his limbs, in the extra pulse of time between his awareness of a threat or an opportunity and his body's slow response. It is going to get worse, he knows. Ademar is not even breathing hard but Ranald is grimly aware that his own shield and armour are dented already by the king's blows. He is afraid he may have broken ribs on his left side; it has become difficult to do much more than parry.

Ademar seems to be aware of this. Through his lowered black visor the king of Gorhaut speaks, contemptuously giving Ranald a respite. Softly, so that none of the others will hear, he says, "I could almost pity you, were you not such a fool. She will be mine tomorrow, I want you to think of that. I hope you are thinking of it in the moment I kill you. Tomorrow night, when her hair is down and she wraps her mouth around my sex in the way that I shall teach her do you think she will mourn the poor, sad, drunken man she once had to lie beside?"

Ranald would reply, but he lacks the breath to spare for taunting, and there is nothing, actually, he can think of to say. His ribs are extraordinarily painful now; each breath drawn seems to slide a knife into his side. He suspects the king is wrong, though; he believes Rosala told no less than truth when she said she would die before lying with Ademar. This thought makes him abruptly aware of something: if the king kills him he is almost certainly killing Rosala as well. And—a second new thought like a lash of the cold wind—even more surely killing the child. The son he has never seen.

I am everything he says of me, Ranald de Garsenc thinks, and now there is bitterness. I have wasted my life.

He remembers—and with this memory as well there is sorrow now—his brother Blaise on the fogbound drawbridge of Garsenc only a little time ago: You don't have to follow him, Ranald. You have the first free choice you've had in a long time. He answered harshly, he remembers, almost choking in confused fury. Corannos knew, there had been so much anger in him that night. Wrongly directed though; he seems to have turned in wrong directions all his life.

There was a time when I would have followed you to the end of the earth, Blaise also said that night. I never knew that, Ranald thinks, his eyes warily on the king of Gorhaut. Blaise is here too, watching him, has claimed a crown, defied their father—even named Corannos to witness his doing so. He is walking a path of honour, one that might make a man proud, even a brother.

Ademar lifts his sword and points it forward like an executioner. He is playing to the armies now, Ranald knows. He can hear them to the north, a constant murmur of sound broken by sharp sudden cries. It is about to begin again. And end, Ranald de Garsenc thinks. He looks up for a moment at the bright sun shining above the fields and the forests of this land of Arbonne.

He is genuinely not afraid, only sorrowful and full of regrets, but it really is too late, he thinks. There would never have been enough time to make amends for so many errors and weaknesses. He thinks of the red-haired woman singing him a lullaby. He wonders if she is waiting for him, if the god might allow a grace like that to such a man as he has been. He thinks of his brother again, and then, lastly, of his wife and the child he has let slip away. Cadar. A strong name, one of honour in the world. Far better than the memory of his own name will be, he thinks, and it is this, at the end, that hurts most of all. And spurs him to a last gesture, an attempt at redress.

Ignoring the pain in his side Ranald thrusts his own sword above his head, theatrical and arresting. Ademar hesitates.

Ranald sucks precious air and cries out then, as loudly as he can through the open visor of his helm, hoping the armies can hear: "Before our most holy god I name you a false king, Ademar, and I set my sword against you in the name of Gorhaut." He hears a new sound rising to the north and knows his words have carried. He stops, sucks air, speaks again, to a coran in their party now, one of his own, a rasped command: "Bergen, ride back to the army. These are my orders, you are charged with them: the corans of Garsenc are not to fight for this man." He pauses, then says it: "Follow my brother now."

It is done, spoken, and not actually so hard as he would have expected it to be. He takes his eyes from the king long enough to meet those of the leader of his corans. He sees Bergen hesitate, then nod, a movement jerky with surprise and fear. He sees him twitch his horse's reins to obey. He turns back then, because he must, to deal with the onrush of the suddenly enraged king.

Ranald de Garsenc offers his soul then, in genuine diffidence, to Corannos, and decides, on impulse, to do one last thing, more for the bittersweet irony of it than anything else. Something from childhood to leave them with. He wonders if anyone will actually realize or recognize what it is he is doing. Blaise might, he thinks wistfully, and then stops thinking for there is no time, Ademar's sword is swinging and the dance is nearly done.

For those watching, events happened very quickly then.

Blaise had turned from the fight when Ranald, sword flamboyantly raised, shouted to the armies and then spoke his astonishing instructions to Bergen, the long-time captain of the Garsenc corans. His heart jumped as he realized what his brother was doing, and he saw Bergen, dead loyal all his life, acknowledge and move to obey.

Bergen of Garsenc was felled by a swordstroke from behind before he had even fully turned his horse. Borsiard d'Andoria, elegant, unsmiling, slid his long blade carelessly free of the coran's body and they saw Bergen fall to the ground. The Portezzan looked deliberately over at Blaise, and then he did smile.

There came a shout of anger and unease from among the army of Gorhaut. They had heard Ranald's cry and had now seen the Portezzan slay one of their own. Some men from each army began moving closer, which was dangerous.

Blaise had no time to deal with that, or with Borsiard just then, for even as he was registering these things in a stray, random memory was being jogged from far back in childhood, from the days when he used to watch his brother train with the corans in the courtyard. There had been something about that elaborately showy, sword-upraised gesture of Ranald's, a deliberate echo of something, a game, a frivolity.