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Her smile stretched to a cheery smirk.

He squinted. “Pretty dress. Quite a change.”

She drew back a little, self-consciously. “It’s only loaned.”

At a clacking of hooves, Foix looked up and scrambled to his feet. Lord Arhys, flanked by another mounted soldier, trotted through the gate on his dappled gray, swung down, and flung his reins to a groom.

“So, Royina.” Arhys turned to her, his smile flickering. “I think your lost ones are returned to you.”

Foix bobbed him a bow. “Only by virtue of your succor, sir. I had not time to introduce myself, out there. Foix dy Gura, at your service.”

“Even if I had not met your brother, your sword and your enemies were recommendation enough. Arhys dy Lutez. Porifors is mine. I shall welcome you in better style hereafter, but I must first see to my scouts. Those Jokonans should not have been on that road—we took two prisoners alive, so I mean to find out how they came so close unseen.” He cast Ista a glum glance. “Now do I doubly miss Illvin—his command of the Roknari tongue is better than any other’s, here.” Arhys gave a wave to Dedicat Pejar, dashing into the entry court with his tunic half fastened and his sword belt askew to greet his restored officer. “Here is one of your own men, to show you how to go on.” He called to a servant, “See that these two have everything they need, till my return. Whatever Pejar or the royina ask.”

The servant gave him an acknowledging half bow. Arhys’s gaze was wary, sweeping past dy Cabon, still sitting bedraggled on the pavement. The divine made an exhausted hand motion, a truncated blessing, promising greater courtesies later.

Arhys turned for his horse again, but paused as Ista grasped him by the sleeve. She reached upward and touched his tunic, torn and bloody on the right shoulder, felt through the rip, and ran her fingers over his cool, unbroken skin. She turned her hand over before him to silently display the dark carmine smear. “At your earliest spare moment, March, I suggest you come inspect your brother’s wound. Your brother’s new wound.”

His lips parted in dismay; he met her level gaze, and winced. “I see.”

“Ride carefully, till then. Wear your mail.”

“We were in haste—” He fingered the rip, his frown deepening. “Indeed.” He gave her a grim nod and swung up again on his sidling horse. Motioning to his mounted man to follow, he cantered out.

Foix glanced around and back to Pejar, worry in his eyes. “Is Ferda here? Is he well?”

“Well, sir, but gone looking for you,” Pejar replied. “He’s probably reached Maradi by now. I expect he’ll make the circle and turn up back here in a few days, swearing at the waste of horseshoes.”

Foix grimaced. “I trust he won’t take the same road we did. Wasn’t what the march of Oby led me to expect at all.”

Why are you not now in the temple hospital at Maradi? Ista wanted to ask, but decided to wait. Foix’s soul was as vigorous and centered as Liss’s, but it appeared to her inner eye that a bear-shaped shadow lurked in his gut. It seemed to sense her scrutiny, for it curled tighter, as if attempting to hibernate. She motioned the hovering servant to her side. “See that these men are speedily refreshed, especially the divine, and lodged in rooms near me.”

“Yes, Royina.”

She added to Foix, “We must speak of—everything, as soon as we may. Have Pejar direct you to me in the stone court as soon as you are both recovered.”

“Yes,” he said eagerly, “we must hear all your tale. Lord Arhys’s ambush was the talk of Oby, yesterday.”

Ista sighed. “So much of dire import has happened since then, I had nearly forgot it.”

His brows climbed. “Oh? We’ll hasten to your side, then.”

He bowed and turned away to assist the servant in coaxing dy Cabon back to his feet. Foix seemed very practiced at it, as if hauling the fat man up and forcing him to move had become second nature of late; dy Cabon’s grumbles were equally perfunctory. The damp divine did not so much drip as steam, but he seemed to be gaining relief from his initial distress.

Cattilara’s