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tablet, however, had lain beyond her skill. Only a master of evil could have ensorceled that.
    “I think I do want it,” Lilli said at last. “Not to wear, but to keep. There were times, you know, when I felt that my mother did love me. She gave me to Lady Bevyan to foster, and she made sure that Uncle Tibryn wouldn't marry me off to Lord Nantyn, if naught else.”
    “Then keep it in remembrance of her better nature,” Nevyn said. “Every soul has one, and it deserves a little honor.”
    Five days after the call to muster, the first of Maryn's vassals rode in to Dun Deverry. The gathering of the full contingent took some weeks, as Maryn's most loyal—and most prosperous—vassals lived far to the south on the sea-coast. With the lords and their warbands came carts, driven by servants and piled high with provisions, as each vassal owed Maryn not only men for his army but the food for three months' campaigning—not such an easy thing to raise, here in the ravaged north. The long years of civil war had starved a good many farm families and killed their sons in battle as well.
    As the fighting men arrived, Branoic started keeping a count by the twenties on a bit of smooth board, but when he got up to a thousand, he stopped. Councillor Oggyn would be doing a better job of it, as he remarked to Maddyn.
    “Just so,” Maddyn said. “The prince must be happy to see such a good turnout.”
    “No doubt,” Branoic said. “Well, we're cursed near tothe victory. That always inspires a little extra loyalty among the noble-born.”
    They shared a laugh. Since Maryn could not officially ennoble Branoic until he was proclaimed king, Branoic still lived among the silver daggers, and they were sitting together in the barracks on a blustery morning. As they talked, Branoic was polishing his mail shirt with a bit of rag. All around them other men were working on their gear: cleaning mail, replacing leather straps or wooden toggles wherever they needed fixing, talking together in low voices about the fighting ahead, or boasting about their exploits of the summer past.
    “Are you looking forward to riding out?” Maddyn said.
    “Not truly,” Branoic said. “Odd of me. I used to be eager enough to get free of winter quarters.”
    “Well, you've got somewhat to stay for now.”
    “Lilli, you mean?” Branoic concentrated on threading the rag through a rusty ring. “If our prince ever lets her go.”
    Maddyn said nothing for a long moment. Branoic looked up to find him solemn.
    “He promised you,” the bard said at length, “that you'd be wed once he had the victory. Our prince doesn't break his promises.”
    “He's never done it before.” Branoic paused, groping for words. “But it's like he's half-mad or somewhat. Lilli tells me he's starting to frighten her. He's jealous, like, and all the time.”
    Maddyn muttered something foul under his breath.
    “And him with his own lady, as beautiful and sweet as ever a man could want.” Branoic felt his bitterness rise in his throat like bile. “It gripes my soul, Maddo lad, if you don't mind me saying it.”
    “Not at all.” Maddyn seemed to be measuring each word. “His lady's devoted to him, as well.”
    “She is that.” Branoic was about to continue his tirade, but he could see that Maddyn looked oddly distracted—no doubt all this talk of women was boring him. “Ah well, I don't mean to croak like a frog, the same blasted chorusover and over. We made our bargain, the prince and me, and I've no call to be thinking he'll break it till he does.”
    Maddyn was about to reply, but from outside they suddenly heard shouting and cheers. Owaen got up and went to look out the window. “It's Glasloc!” he called out. “Gwerbret Daeryc's held loyal to the prince!”
    The silver daggers cheered as well, whether anyone could hear them or not, then went back to their work. Maddyn, however, neither spoke nor moved, merely sat staring out at nothing.
    “Here,” Branoic said,