clans and crafts.
Nor had discipline lapsed even slightly since the events of the previous day, though speculation and unease had surely increased, as it would have had to among soldiers. But the army, Vorinn sensed, was still strong and perfectly controlled.
They rose as they saw him, saluting him as he and his party advanced toward the centermost siege tower.
Which, he supposed, was marginally safer now that Zeff had lost his principal weapon. No lightning would blast this tower today. But even as he advanced, Vorinn’s gaze scanned the second palisade that draped the vale: the one before him, a quarter shot beyond the first wall of royal shields. There was indeed movement there, but he could not tell more, save that people seemed to be flooding out into the field between Zeff’spalisade and the hold proper, but under cover of dark blankets or other fabric, so that it was impossible to make out what they were doing with any degree of certainty.
And the arcades—movement there, too, but likewise masked by fabric and furtiveness. The galleries would be getting true mornlight soon, and wouldn’t need torches anyway. He hated that: that the foe in Gem-Hold could almost certainly see him better than he could see them.
Wordlessly, he dismounted and climbed the steps that kinked up the center of the tower. Only when he had reached the level below the top did he step out onto a platform. Pausing only to settle his cloak and set his Regent’s circlet on his hair, he strode to the rail and waited. Tryffon joined him on the right, Preedor—with some difficulty—on the left. Veen held his helm, her face hard with determined pride. He wondered how she felt about Avall’s disappearance, given that her star seemed linked with the King’s far more than it was with his own.
Time passed.
Slowly
, it seemed, though those who waited below probably felt that it moved far too quickly, if it was battle at dawn they faced. Vorinn didn’t blame them. In spite of the recent war with Ixti, very few Eronese under the age of sixty had seen more than mock training battles hand to hand. He hadn’t either—but he was different. Battle was born into him.
The sun’s rays were moving faster, too, their earlier creep down the mountains now become a precipitous slide. In a moment, a ray would touch the golden ball atop the Hold’s centermost tower, and dawn would officially arrive.
Zeff had demanded that the King’s forces be withdrawn at dawn. But that had been yesterday. This was now.
Where was Zeff, anyway?
Would he even bother to appear?
Could
he even appear? Had his failure yesterday weakened his position past enduring? Vorinn had no way of knowing.
But then it didn’t matter, for gold suddenly gleamed like fire atop the hold, and morning swept down its whitewashed walls.
—To reveal Zeff standing where Vorinn had last seen him: on the lowest of the pillared arcades. Even the tabletop on which he had displayed Avall remained in place, token, it would seem, of arrogance as much as anything.
Zeff wore white, but he did not wear the helm and shield he had captured when he had taken Avall: the ones that were precise replicas of the magic regalia. And the matching sword was gone, of course, as was—presumably—the master gem.
But it did not seem to matter. Zeff looked as composed and arrogant as ever. And he raised his speaking horn to his lips and called out one lone word.
“Behold!”
The sound belled around the gallery and assailed the vale below like brazen thunder.
And was clearly a signal to begin the next stage of the confrontation.
It was as fine a show of coordinated action as Vorinn had ever witnessed, for all it was effected with what looked like draperies, blankets, and ropes. Whatever the mechanism, the darkness fell away from the backs of the galleries to reveal line on line of people roped one to another and likewise tied to the hold’s balustrades—men and women, without distinction, excepting the very old
Nor had discipline lapsed even slightly since the events of the previous day, though speculation and unease had surely increased, as it would have had to among soldiers. But the army, Vorinn sensed, was still strong and perfectly controlled.
They rose as they saw him, saluting him as he and his party advanced toward the centermost siege tower.
Which, he supposed, was marginally safer now that Zeff had lost his principal weapon. No lightning would blast this tower today. But even as he advanced, Vorinn’s gaze scanned the second palisade that draped the vale: the one before him, a quarter shot beyond the first wall of royal shields. There was indeed movement there, but he could not tell more, save that people seemed to be flooding out into the field between Zeff’spalisade and the hold proper, but under cover of dark blankets or other fabric, so that it was impossible to make out what they were doing with any degree of certainty.
And the arcades—movement there, too, but likewise masked by fabric and furtiveness. The galleries would be getting true mornlight soon, and wouldn’t need torches anyway. He hated that: that the foe in Gem-Hold could almost certainly see him better than he could see them.
Wordlessly, he dismounted and climbed the steps that kinked up the center of the tower. Only when he had reached the level below the top did he step out onto a platform. Pausing only to settle his cloak and set his Regent’s circlet on his hair, he strode to the rail and waited. Tryffon joined him on the right, Preedor—with some difficulty—on the left. Veen held his helm, her face hard with determined pride. He wondered how she felt about Avall’s disappearance, given that her star seemed linked with the King’s far more than it was with his own.
Time passed.
Slowly
, it seemed, though those who waited below probably felt that it moved far too quickly, if it was battle at dawn they faced. Vorinn didn’t blame them. In spite of the recent war with Ixti, very few Eronese under the age of sixty had seen more than mock training battles hand to hand. He hadn’t either—but he was different. Battle was born into him.
The sun’s rays were moving faster, too, their earlier creep down the mountains now become a precipitous slide. In a moment, a ray would touch the golden ball atop the Hold’s centermost tower, and dawn would officially arrive.
Zeff had demanded that the King’s forces be withdrawn at dawn. But that had been yesterday. This was now.
Where was Zeff, anyway?
Would he even bother to appear?
Could
he even appear? Had his failure yesterday weakened his position past enduring? Vorinn had no way of knowing.
But then it didn’t matter, for gold suddenly gleamed like fire atop the hold, and morning swept down its whitewashed walls.
—To reveal Zeff standing where Vorinn had last seen him: on the lowest of the pillared arcades. Even the tabletop on which he had displayed Avall remained in place, token, it would seem, of arrogance as much as anything.
Zeff wore white, but he did not wear the helm and shield he had captured when he had taken Avall: the ones that were precise replicas of the magic regalia. And the matching sword was gone, of course, as was—presumably—the master gem.
But it did not seem to matter. Zeff looked as composed and arrogant as ever. And he raised his speaking horn to his lips and called out one lone word.
“Behold!”
The sound belled around the gallery and assailed the vale below like brazen thunder.
And was clearly a signal to begin the next stage of the confrontation.
It was as fine a show of coordinated action as Vorinn had ever witnessed, for all it was effected with what looked like draperies, blankets, and ropes. Whatever the mechanism, the darkness fell away from the backs of the galleries to reveal line on line of people roped one to another and likewise tied to the hold’s balustrades—men and women, without distinction, excepting the very old
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