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the runedead, stopping the horrible creature in the sky over Knightcastle. The runedead had been destroyed, the war ended. The war was over.
    Adalar had to keep telling himself that. 
    Not everyone had died. Not everyone had perished the way women and children had died in the courtyard of Knightcastle on the day of the Great Rising, screaming in pain and horror as the runedead tore them apart. Not everyone had died as the men and women under his protection in Mastaria had died, helpless against the runedead. 
    So many people had died.
    Sometimes in his dreams Adalar saw his younger self, when he had still been Mazael Cravenlock’s squire. He had ridden near Lucan Mandragon, the traitorous author of the Great Rising and the Runedead War. Adalar screamed at his younger self, begging the boy to put a blade through Lucan’s heart before it was too late. If Lucan died, it could all be avoided – the Great Rising, the runedead, Caraster’s rebellion, Lord Malden’s fall, all of it. 
    If only his father had lived a little longer. Sir Nathan would have seen the truth. He would have stopped Lucan before it was too late. 
    So many people who had died would now live. 
    Adalar awoke drenched in sweat and sat up. He closed his eyes and coiled his hands into fists, forcing them to stillness. His men could not seem him like this. Wesson could not see him like this. They suspected something was wrong, that their lord was more melancholy than he should have been, but they did not know the truth.
    Adalar didn’t know what was wrong, either. 
    The runedead had been defeated and Mazael had killed Lucan Mandragon, and if the stories were true, even the Old Demon himself. Yet the war itself seemed to have sunk into Adalar’s bones. His thoughts turned again and again to the runedead and the dead of the war. If he was idle for too long he thought upon it. When he slept he dreamt about it.  
    It was as if the war had left poison in him. 
    A poison that he could not cure. Maybe it would kill him. 
    Adalar waited until the trembling stopped in his hands, and then got up, pulled on his tunic and trousers, and stepped out of his tent. He stilled his face to calm. His men might think him melancholy, but he would not have them think him mad. He was still their lord, sworn to protect them, and by the gods he would not neglect that responsibility. 
    The bonfire at the center of the camp had burned down to coals. Most of his men were asleep in their bedrolls, save for those assigned to the night watch. Adalar stepped past his tent and gazed into the darkness. A thousand times a thousand stars blazed overhead like jewels strewn across a black cloak. It was a beautiful sight, but it sent a chill down his back. He remembered fighting the runedead in the dark, the ghostly light of the sigils upon their brows shining like dead candles …
    Adalar gazed into the darkness for a long time, and then returned to his tent. 
    He did not sleep for the rest of the night, but that was just as well, since he did not have any nightmares.
     
    ###
     
    “You ought to see this, my lord,” said Wesson.
    “Oh?” said Adalar, shaking off his reverie. “See what?” 
    The road led east, winding its way across the grassy plains of the Grim Marches. Another few days and they would reach the Northwater inn, likely rebuilt after the great battle against the Justiciars. Then they would cut through the hill country and reach Castle Cravenlock itself in another three days. Adalar could still see the grim mountains of Skuldar to the west, but just barely. 
    “Something odd,” said Wesson. 
    Adalar started to make a joke, but the serious look on his friend’s face stilled his tongue. Wesson was always serious, but this time he looked grim. The way he did when a battle was about to start.
    “Trouble?” said Adalar. 
    “It might be,” said Wesson. “Come and see.”
    Adalar nodded, commanded the column to halt, and rode with Wesson and a few armsmen to a