There was a grimmer and very businesslike feel to this camp, from which they would set out on their final march either to fight or to establish a camp in the face of the enemy, from which they would launch a more deliberate war.

There was more and quicker order, for one thing, so Idrys had reported from his latest tour about. Untaught peasants, accepted into Amefel’s line, followed lords’ and officers’ orders and soldiers’ examples tonight in the not unreasonable confidence that their lives very soon would hang upon what they learned. So from a slovenly behavior at the outset, things were done remarkably well this evening among the Amefin, and two of the Amefin village units, of Hawwyvale, were at drill even in the dark and by lantern-light, an excess of zeal, Idrys said, and he agreed: they dared not have the men exhausted.

Meanwhile, Kerdin Qwyll’s-son said, the Guelen regulars moved among the Amefin, impeccable and meticulous in their procedures, instructing those who would listen. A few officers had gone about near the fires and had eager and worshipful entourages of wise Amefin lads who wanted to live long lives.

Among them, too, in the attraction of the bonfires, were Cevulirn’s riders, drilled from boyhood to ride the land and teach the young village lads what time they were outside the service of Cevulirn’s court. They had set the small Amefin section of the horse-camp in good order very quickly, and joined the tale-telling around the fires. So did Imor’s men, mostly townsmen, well-ordered and well-drilled; merchants’ and tradesmen’s sons, they drilled on every ninth day, and of those merchants’ sons every one that afforded his horse and attendants was proud and careful in his equipment-a haughty lot, more so than Cevulirn’s riders, who, if the ale did start flowing, might grow less reserved than their gray, pale lord.

But they had not heard from Pelumer and they had not received Olmern’s messenger.

He had made his third venture to the door, and to the fire at which his own cook was preparing the lords’ fare, when horses came down the main aisle of the camp, and he saw Ninévrisé and Tristen and their escort coming in safe and sound.

Then he could let go his anxiousness, particularly when firelight lit the arriving party’s faces, and Ninévrisé leapt down and ran to him saying that things were very well at Althalen.

“It was beautiful,” she said, accepting his hands. “It was beautiful. I wish you had seen—”

“I doubt that I could,” he said, conscious of Guelenfolk about and wondering what she might have said or seen out there that might find its way to orthodox ears; but he had not meant to make it a complaint.

“The lord Regent protects us here,” Tristen said. “I was right. He has won Althalen. He’s held. Men loyal to the Regent died there, and so did his enemies—but most of all is Emwy village. They’ve sided with the lord Regent. I think they have, all along.”

“They fed us when we were camped there,” Ninévrisé said. “They kept us secret from Caswyddian’s men. They were good people, in Emwy village.”

“Then the gods give them rest,” Cefwyn said, though he thought perhaps the wish was ill considered. They were uneasy dead, by what Tristen claimed, and would always be.

But Tristen was looking downcast as he turned Petelly off to the groom. He stood gazing off into the distance at the moment, and comprehension seemed to flicker in those pale eyes, cold and clear in the firelight, as if he had heard from some distant voice.

“What is it?” Cefwyn steeled himself to ask—as he should have asked in council before. He had determined to mend his faults. And to tell Ninévrisé what he did know.

“Trouble,” Tristen said, “trouble. My lord, I very dangerously misstepped tonight. He carried me to Ynefel. I was very foolish. I almost lost everything.”

“What did he gain?” He did not need to ask who it was Tristen meant; and he had no room for charity. “Tristen?”

“Little, I hope. Perhaps knowledge of me. I—do not think lord Pelumer will join us. My enemy is moving. He is well ahead of us.”

“Tasien?” Ninévrisé asked in alarm, and looked at Tristen.

Tristen had spilled it. Gods knew what else he had let loose. “We fear Lord Tasien may have fallen,” Cefwyn said, gently. “My lady, —Tristen only fears so. At this point—”

“It is certain,” Tristen said; and anger touched Cefwyn’s heart—he bore with all Tristen’s manners, but he could not accustom himself to interruptions especially on important points.

And something happened, something clearly happened, then. Tristen had looked at Ninévrisé and Ninévrisé looked at Tristen, her clenched fists against chin an instant, and then—then something else was there—all he himself could have done, the knowledge, the comfort—all that passed in changes he saw, and could not touch, and could not feel.  Anger welled up in him.

And yet—yet how could they do otherwise, and how could Tristen not be the gentle creature he had always been, with all his impossible questions and his impossible ways.

He could not rebuke Tristen. He turned and began to limp into the tent, and Ninévrisé came hurrying after, to walk beside him, to offer a gentle, almost touching hand, respectful of his royal person, at least, when his friend would have had no such good sense.

Tristen said, from behind him, “Sir, I know now. He has Tasien and all his men, my lord King. If we defeat him—there might be help for the men.”

He turned. “And what will you do? Raise them from the dead?” He was angrier than he had known. He wished it unsaid an instant after. He feared what he had said.

But Tristen said, quietly, as if anger could never touch him, “No, my lord King.”

“The leg pains me,” he muttered, and turned and went inside the tent, with Ninévrisé He looked back at Tristen standing by the fire. “Come.

Come. Sit with me. Share a cup. Bear with my humors. I was in desperate fear for you.”

“Yes, sir,” Tristen said mildly, and came into the tent, in its shortage of chairs—but before they had gotten to that difficulty, from one of those arcane signals that provided such things, two boys of Tristen’s service had come in with his chair for him.

So, close on that, came Umanon, with his page, and bearing a chair, a cup, such necessities as even the King’s pavilion did not manage to provide all comers.

Came Cevulirn, and Annas had the royal pages hurrying about, harried lads, pouring wine into any outheld cup—Tristen lacked one, but Annas provided it.

“My lords,” Cefwyn said, sat down with a sigh and extended the aching leg. “Supper will be coming. In the meanwhile, sit, ask any comfort—I would you had had your season at home, but we had treachery in Henas’amef, plans were betrayed, and tonight the enemy’s overrun Lord Tasien, gods preserve his unhappy soul, so Tristen informs us, by sources—I don’t think dismay you gentlemen.”

“Treachery,” Cevulirn said. “Of the Aswyddim?”

He gave a rueful nod. “Clearer-sighted than your King, sir, and hence I limp, gentle sirs. Which does not hamper my riding. Nor will it keep me from answering this incursion. Thus the summons. Which you answered in excellent order. Tristen says that Althalen is made safer than it was.”

“It’s safe to leave the tents here,” Tristen said. “And we must move, before light.”

“Our men have ridden hard,” Umanon protested. “If they’re across, they’ll loot the camp. And we’ve Pelumer to find.”

“Pelumer will not reach us,” Tristen said, “and the enemy will not delay. They are closer. They’ve camped, I do think, but not—not longer than they must.”

There was an uncomfortable silence in the tent. The servants had begun to bring the food in, and stopped where they stood.

“A disciplined army,” Umanon said, frowning in clear disbelief, “that can move on its forces past a chance for loot even at a fallen camp. This is not what I’ve heard of Asdyneddin. The Lord Warden is venturing a prediction—or has he certain knowledge? And whence the news of Lanfarnesse?”