There was a twisted tree remembered from the summer’s end, the milestones beneath a knob of a hill.

And over a steep roll of the land they first caught sight of another shadowy height, the ancient citadel, under a dim sky, itself under a smudge of evening fires. Purer lights gleamed from the crest of that hill, lights which would be the tall, unshuttered windows above the inner walls of the citadel. The defensive walls obscured the rest, but not the few lights outside the walls, the scattered gleam of some lantern in the stables.

The bare branches of the orchards that stood on this approach screened them from view. They had come from the east, but had swung southerly, the East Gate of the town being all but unused and what men named the East Road passing to the south, joining the South Road before the walls.

“We’re just a wee bit behind the gate-closing,” Uwen said, which it was, clearly. And after a moment more: “Will ye go ahead in, m’lord? Or camp?”

“Go in,” Tristen said, with hardly a thought in it. They were here. They had come closer than he had planned. Now the stone rolled entirely, solidly, fate-guided back to its place.

“I’d take just the banners on, m’lord, and ye hold back with the troop till we have the gates open. Ye might sit and have a sip and stay warm the while an’ come in like a lord.”

Henas’amef was a more cautious, a more wary town than Guelemara. The gates had used to shut at the first dimming of the light, and still did, as seemed. The king’s messenger had delivered word of his arrival, surely; but even so, riding up out of the night, a hundred men were an unsettling sight. Couriers would have to run back and forth between the town gate and the citadel informing the viceroy, who would have to send down to open the gates, and all the while this was going on, the town would be in doubt and their own company would have to stand outside on horses that would see no reason not to go aside to the stables outside the wall, stables which Petelly in particular well knew were at hand. It was in all points, on an ordinary day, more sensible to camp until daylight.

But he burned to be inside the walls, to have uncertainties settled, no matter the inconveniences to all concerned. And he sought a quieter course, one which a slight persuasion might affect.

“You and I and the banners,” he said to Uwen.

“Your Grace.” Captain Anwyll had maintained a glum silence for the last bitter hour, but now he protested. “In His Majesty’s name, I counsel you, no. Never entertain such a notion. Make camp, wait here. His Majesty would never approve Your Grace riding up alone. The town is known for rebellion.”

“Uwen, I say. The two of us and the banner-bearers.”

Uwen said, soft-voiced: “I’ll do what ye wish, m’lord, but the captain’s givin’ good advice.”

“I say we go ask them to open the gates.”

“If there ain’t no untoward event of His Majesty’s message to the viceroy, aye, then maybe us two were enough. But that ain’t sayin’ what else could go amiss, m’lord, in the dark and wi’ rumors loose, as may be. The town’s a chancy ride i’ the dark. Listen to the captain.”

“You and I and the banners,” he said, making up his mind. “If they open to us straightway, we’ll be inside, and the gates will be open. Then, Captain, or if not, you’ll come. I wish no commotion of the town, and I prefer they not see all of us.”

“I fear there will be a commotion, at this hour,” Anwyll said. “Or worse. Follow Lewen’s-son’s advice, if not mine: let him go, him and the banners, no more. Or send me. It is not cowardice that urges caution, Your Grace, it is reasonable concern for your safety.”

“When you see a light from the open gates, Captain, or if you see us riding back, come in quickly.”

“Your Grace, —”

“Come in quickly, I say.”

“As Your Grace wishes,” Anwyll said glumly.

And, having been reined back, Petelly had it in his head at the moment that he was going to the stables whatever the outcome of the discussion. Tristen spent not another word on argument with the captain or the horse, but climbed down off Petelly’s back, put up the coif, put on his helm. “Bring him with you as you can,” he said, and entrusted Petelly to a guardsman to bring along. He unslung his shield from his back and stripped off the weather-cover, which was plain black. So was the shield face black, but with the pale Star and Tower of Ynefel, the sign of wizardry, the scandal of the Quinaltine. There had been no time to change it.

Meanwhile all around him, at Anwyll’s order, a hundred men quietly settled their equipment in order, changed to their war-trained horses, and armed themselves to follow him in due course.

A last test of Gery’s cinch, a judicious tightening, by his own bare hand, trusting not even Uwen’s offer to settle his equipment. Then he put on the right-hand gauntlet, set his hand in the shield grip and his foot in the stirrup, still judging the girth as it took his armored weight. Gery had not swelled against the girth, rather took him up in good order, but with a little shiver and a pricking-up of the ears at this breaking-forth of warlike equipment.

There was, however, no nonsense from Gery at this hour, none of Petelly’s breaking forward unbidden. None of their horses had called out in the evening quiet. The orchards—a hazard Cefwyn had forborne to cut down despite the threat of war inside the province— screened their approach toward the town gates despite the lack of leaves, and the dark east and clouded south had been constantly at their backs during the last of the sunlight, so they had never for any moment stood out against the sky. Unlike Guelemara, Henas’amef had few outbuildings, only the stables and a few barns and huts where herdsmen dwelt. Now the surrounds of the town were almost entirely dark, the stars brightening overhead.

Banners unfurled, first the white Sihhë Star shining in the gloom of near night, then the Star and Tower. Third and centermost, the Eagle flew, black on deepest red, a banner more ominous and wholly dark in this twilight than the two Sihhë standards. One-handed, managing Gery with his knees and with his shield hand holding the reins, Tristen tightened the last two buckles on his side as they went.

Then three other riders overtook them: Aran, of Tristen’s own four guards, came up, and two more guardsmen came with them.

“To guard your backs, m’lord,” Aran said, when Tristen glanced at that arrival in displeasure. “By your leave, m’lord.”

The well-ditched road ran beside the orchards on one hand and stone-fenced sheep-meadow on the other. Then plowed fields replaced pasture as their road, the East, joined the main South Road. Shortly after that, the West Road swept in beside a sheep wall to make it all one road.

From there, they were on the last long straight approach toward the main gate of the town, the banners flying and snapping in the dark. They crossed the ring road, which went around the town walls and came racing up to the great South Gate, near Cevulirn’s camp of this summer, the site now a barren field.

The horses fetched up, stamping and blowing in their impatience. “Ho the gatekeepers!” Lusin shouted out at the lofty town gate, all but obscured by the Tower banner as they confronted the gate and the likely scrutiny of the gate wardens. “Ho there, for His Grace of Amefel! Open the gate! Let His Lordship in!”

“Aye!” came a thin-voiced shout back. “Aye!” But no opening of the gate ensued. Lusin rode by and thumped the wood hard with his shield. That drew an answer.

“ Just a moment, just a moment, there!”

No bell had rung yet to advise the higher town, but it might ring at any moment. Tristen expected it, as Gery stamped and blew in impatience. Came a sound of steps from inside, not at the bar of the sally port, which might signal the intent to open, but a heavy, panting thump of a heavy man running up the stairs inside the gatehouse. The thumping ascended all the way up to the stubby right-hand tower of the pair that supported the gate.