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colony.”
    Karel glanced sideways at Prince Tomas, shrugged. “Can’t be helped.”
    It wasn’t the armsmen’s high spirits that made them stand out; it was their coloring. One tall, blond man would be conspicuous in this taproom, let alone ten. And then there was Solveig’s long plait of hair. And Bjarne’s beard.
    Karel eyed Bjarne. The armsman had washed his beard and combed it and plaited it into two short braids. “It’s Bjarne,” he said. “Without that beard, we’d blend right in.”
    Prince Tomas snorted into his ale.
    “Think I should tell Bjarne to cut it off?”
    Tomas grinned. “Good luck with that.”
    Karel grunted and leaned further back in his chair. His relaxation was on the surface, no deeper than his skin. His muscles, his ligaments, even his bones, were tight with tension. He counted the miles separating them from the princess in his head. How many more days before they caught up with her? He glanced around the taproom again, his gaze skimming over the locals—dark-haired, olive-skinned—before coming to rest on the armsmen. As he watched, Ture jumped his way across the board and let out a crow of triumph.
    The armsmen laughed. So did Prince Tomas.
    Ture began to set up the board again. Dag picked up his tankard, drained it, wiped his mouth. “Did you hear the one about the man on his deathbed? Cocky little bastard called Ture, he was.”
    Ture glanced up and grinned, but didn’t pause in laying out the pieces.
    “So Ture was on his deathbed breathing his last, and his beautiful young wife, Anka, said, ‘Ture, please tell me... is there anything I can do for you?’”
    Ture glanced up again. The wary gleam in his eye told Karel that there really was an Anka.
    “‘There is something,” Dag said, in a croaking voice. “‘After I die, it would mean so much to me if you would marry my best friend, Dag.’”
    Ture snorted and turned his attention back to the pieces on the board.
    “Anka took Ture’s hand and clasped it to her breast. ‘My dearest darling’”—Dag’s voice was a high-pitched coo—“‘You have nothing to worry about. We’ve been planning that for a long time now.’”
    Even Ture joined in the laughter, grinning and shaking his head.
    Karel didn’t laugh. He thought about the look in Ture’s eyes. Was Anka his sweetheart? His wife? Would Ture ever see her again?
    His gaze slid over the armsmen’s faces. The men had all volunteered. They knew what they were up against. They knew some of them would die.
    And some would live.
    He glanced at Prince Tomas, saw the scarred cheek, the missing ear. The prince had faced Fithians before. Faced them and survived—and volunteered for more. Because he sees this as a heroic quest. Rescuing the beautiful princess . And then he looked down at his ale and wondered if he was being too harsh. Princess Brigitta had saved Lundegaard from invasion. Perhaps Tomas felt he owed it to her to rescue her?
    Or maybe he wants to win her hand?
    For a moment he almost hated the prince—then common-sense asserted itself. If Princess Brigitta ever married again, Tomas would be a good husband. A thousand times better than Duke Rikard had been. Tomas was good-humored, courageous, honorable. He’d never bed the princess forcibly, as Rikard had done.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN
     
    T HE CART HALTED . From the clink of harnesses being removed, they were stopping for the night. Britta reached for the waterskin, gulped a few mouthfuls, then lay back in her dirty nest of blankets, curled up like a child. Half an hour passed before someone climbed into the cart. She kept her eyes closed.
    A Fithian gathered her up in her blankets and passed her down to someone. She was carried a dozen paces, laid on the ground, and left. From nearby came the low murmur of voices and the scent of meat cooking. Her mouth watered. Her stomach tied itself in a knot of hunger. After several minutes, she opened her eyes fractionally. Darkness, a campfire, the shapes of seated