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Dy Cabon’s failing horse stumbled on at a walk toward Porifors, but he twisted his bulk in the saddle to watch over his shoulder as Foix crested the hill. Foix recoiled briefly at the sight of the armed troop, but an open handed wave from Arhys, and a wilder arm-circling from dy Cabon, beyond, apparently reassured him. He lashed his horse onward, spoke briefly with Arhys, turned, and drew his sword.

A breathless pause. Ista could hear her blood thudding in her ears, and, foolishly, some bird warbling in the brush, a bright, liquid, indifferent trill, just as if this were some morning of peace and ease. Arhys raised his sword high and swung it down sharply in signal, and his troop thundered forward.

The men from Porifors crested the rise and fell upon the Jokonan troop too fast for the leaders to turn and retreat. The horsemen in both vans were instantly engaged. The Jokonans at the rear yanked their horses around as hard as they could and spurred away, but not faster than at least a couple of crossbow bolts. A rider in a green tabard toppled and fell from his saddle. The range from here was too great for the bowman sharing Ista’s vantage on the tower to waste his quarrels in the fray, and he swore in frustration at his impotence, then glanced at the royina and mumbled an apology. Ista waved him full royal dispensation, gripped the hot, gritty stone, and leaned squinting into the light.

Arhys’s sword danced in the sun, a glittering blur. His dappled gray was crowded up in the middle of a pack of kicking, squealing horses. A Jokonan soldier who had managed to get his lance unshipped whipped it up over his own mount’s head and jammed it awkwardly, backhanded, across the haunches of the mount of the man who presently engaged Arhys’s sword. Arhys jerked away. Cattilara screamed as the lance wrenched back again, spattering blood.

“My lord is struck!” cried the bowman, leaning out as tensely as the women. “Oh—no. His sword arm rises. Five gods be thanked.”

The horsemen disengaged, the Jokonan swordsman reeling in his saddle. The spearman saw an opening and galloped through to pursue his retreating comrades, bending low over his mount’s neck; a crossbow bolt whizzed over his head to encourage him on his way.

Curse it, that spearpoint had found a mark in Arhys’s shoulder; Ista had seen the shock of the contact shove the Jokonan’s hand back, almost ripping the shaft from his grip. Yet Arhys’s sword swung unhindered . . . Her breath drew in sharply, and she whirled away and started for the stairs.

“Liss, attend me!”

“But Royina, don’t you want to see how it comes out?”

“Attend me.”

Not waiting to see if the girl followed, Ista yanked up her lilac skirts and shuffled down the tight, dark stone curve of the tower stairs. She almost fell in her haste, then hugged the outer wall and the wider tread, but did not slow.

Out the door, across another courtyard, under the archway, into the stone court. Up the stairs. Her feet thumped across the gallery. She tugged open Illvin’s carved door.

Goram was crouched by Lord Illvin’s right side, groaning in fear. Illvin’s linen tunic was yanked open and half-down. The groom glanced over his shoulder at her entry and cried, “Lady, help!”

His hands, she saw as she neared, were pressed to Illvin’s shoulder, and gory with blood. The tunic sleeve was soaked in scarlet. Ista tore around the room until she found a cloth that might be folded into a pad, bundled it clean side outward, and offered it; Goram snatched his hands away just long enough to grab it and stuff it against the jagged wound in Illvin’s shoulder.

“I didn’t! I didn’t!” cried Goram to her, his eye rolling white-rimmed. “It just happened.”

“Yes, Goram, I know. It’s all right,” Ista soothed him. “You’re doing well.” Almost, she was tempted to squeeze the rope of white fire shut again, returning the ugly gash to its rightful owner. But now was clearly not a good moment to drop Arhys senseless from his saddle. Illvin’s closed gray eyelids did not move or flutter or pinch