The centaur’s eyebrows rose at the plainsman’s use of the Solamnic title, and his eyes slid from Sir Remmik to Linsha and back in surprise.

Linsha didn’t blame him. While Sir Remmik still wore the formal blue and silver tunic of the Solamnic Circle and made an effort to keep it clean and repaired, she had lost her armor and her uniform months ago to battle, blood, and exile. Now she wore a stained and battered tunic that looked a little worse for her dunking in the sea, a leather corselet that was two sizes too big, and pants she had washed and repaired so many times there wasn’t much left of the original color. Her boots had holes in the soles and were held together by bits of rope and leather strips. Her auburn hair was shaggy and unkempt, her nails were dirty, and she was thinner than she had been in years. An owl perched on her shoulder. She hardly looked the part of a high-ranking Solamnic Knight.

Leonidas beside her chuckled and, giving a salute to his kinsman, said, “Do not be fooled by appearances. It takes more than a fancy coat to make a warrior.”

A rude snort brought Linsha’s attention to Sir Remmik’s face. Anger suffused his lean features and creased heavy frown lines around his nose and across his high forehead. “That’s true, horse-man,” he said fiercely. “It takes morals and obedience to a higher law.”

Linsha’s temper, already straining at its bit, lashed out. Ignoring Varia’s warning hoot, she leaned forward, her hands on the table, and held him with her eyes. “It also requires an open mind and the ability to see beyond the end of your nose. The Tarmaks killed Sir Morrec. I told you that, but you refuse to accept anything that does not conform to your own fantasies.”

Sir Remmik leaned forward as well, the other men forgotten. “You have no proof.”

“I cannot drag the Tarmak leader before you to admit to his complicity,” she retorted. “I have given you my word as a Rose Knight, something which even to you should be inviolate.”

“You were tried and condemned before a council of your peers. You are an abomination to us. Your word means nothing!”

“A pretty use of logic!” she spat. “That council was of your making. You-”

Falaius held up a hand between them and said calmly, “We’ve heard this before.”

Embarrassed, Linsha stepped back. Why had she let Remmik goad her again? She knew better than to engage in an argument with him, especially in front of a stranger-or Falaius and Dockett. Sir Remmik had convinced himself and much of the Circle that she had killed their commander, Sir Morrec, during an ambush on the night of the great storm. His evidence of her alleged guilt was the presence of her dagger in Sir Morrec’s back and the fact that she had been the only one of the honor guard to survive. She had failed to defend her superior officer, and she had failed to die. In Sir Remmik’s eyes, that alone was enough to condemn her to exile and, if possible, death.

Thankfully neither the militia nor the Legion fed on Sir Remmik’s idea of the truth. They accepted Linsha into their ranks, gave her sanctuary, and protected her from Sir Remmik’s wrath. Falaius had even offered her a place in the Legion, an honor for which she was truly grateful. But in spite of the fact this was the second time members of the Order had tried to convict her and blacklist her, the Solamnic Knighthood was too deeply ingrained in her bones. She wasn’t ready to give up on it yet.

She bowed apologetically to the centaur. “Forgive us. It is an old feud.”

Sir Remmik backed away, too, and had the grace to looked slightly ashamed.

On the woman’s shoulder, Varia huffed out her feathers and made a low-throated grumbling sound of indignation. Although she had a vast range of sounds and voices, she preferred to remain quiet in the presence of strangers.

“As I was saying,” Falaius said, “Horemheb has come from Duntollik with news.”

The rangy centaur shook his head as if he couldn’t quite believe what he had just heard, then returned to his business. “In truth, I bring news. But I came to seek news as well. For years we have kept a close watch on the blue dragon, Thunder, since his realm borders on our own. Many times he has flown over Duntollik to spread terror and raid our villages. I think he would have driven us out long ago if Beryl and Sable had not forbidden him to seek more territory. Lately, though, our chieftains have grown concerned. We have not seen either Iyesta or Thunder these past three months, and news from the Missing City has completely stopped. I was sent south to find out what is happening.”

Falaius pointed to the maps and said to Linsha, “We have told him of the storm, the invasion, and the fall of the city. Since you are here, you can fill in the rest.”

Sir Remmik had not left the table, and Linsha could feel his pent-up anger radiating off him like heat waves on the sand. He had never fully believed her story of the death of the dragons-he didn’t want to believe her part in it-and he probably feared she would lie again. Linsha pushed him from her mind and let her thoughts slip back to midsummer and the dark-drowned caverns below the city. In her mind’s eye she saw them again, the huge corpses, two withered and reduced to heaps of bones and scales; one rotting in the sands of the empty dragon nest.

“They’re dead,” she said at last.

Horemheb started as if stung. “Both of them? By the gods! What happened?”

“The Tarmaks brought an Abyssal Lance. Thunder used it to kill Iyesta during the storm. Crucible and I and a centaur named Azurale turned it against him and killed him just after the city fell. Their bodies are beneath the Missing City, so the news has not spread quickly.”

The Willik centaur rubbed his bearded chin. He looked stunned. “Falaius has told me of the Tarmaks, but who is Crucible, and what is an Abyssal Lance?”

“Crucible is a bronze dragon who helped us for a while. He has since returned to his lair near Sanction.” Linsha paused, took a deep breath, and went on. “The Abyssal Lance is a vile weapon. I was told a few were made during the Chaos War. A Dark Knight presented one to the Tarmaks-the Brutes as you might know them-who used it as a lure to overcome Thunder’s fear of Iyesta. They convinced him to help them invade the city in return for a large share of her treasure.” She grimaced. “As soon as Iyesta was dead and the Missing City had fallen, the Tarmaks left the lance for us to steal, knowing we would try to kill Thunder.”

“Why would they do that if he was their ally?” Horemheb asked, still trying to absorb the monumental news.

Linsha lifted her free shoulder in a shrug. “You know Thunder. He was vicious, greedy, and unpredictable. I think they hoped we would rid them of him before he became a problem for them.”

“They wanted Iyesta’s city for themselves,” General Dockett said.

“They won’t stop there. I believe they want her entire realm.”

Linsha turned at the sound of the new voice and grinned at the tall man coming to join them. Lanther’s eye caught hers, and his weathered face broke into a matching smile of pleasure. Dark-haired and lanky, he had been a formidable warrior once until a serious injury two years ago had left him with a limp and a livid scar down his right cheek. The injury had sent him into semi-retirement in the Missing City while still in his forties.

He stopped beside her, gave Varia a wink with a bright blue eye, and bowed gravely to the messenger. “Your pardon for the interruption,” he said.

Introductions were made again to acquaint Horemheb with Lanther. The centaur studied the Legionnaire carefully and nodded once. “You have seen your share of fighting these past years,” he observed.

Lanther laughed, a sharp sound of grim humor. “What gave it away? The scars or the limp?”

“Those, and the tales that are told about you in the City of Morning Dew. I went there before I made my way down here, and they are still telling stories of your rescues in the tavern.”