“The Swordmainnir,” she announced, “are content in all sooth. Our knowledge of the Ranyhyn is scant. Yet we have witnessed their glory and service. To our sight, they resemble the wonder and mystery of Andelain made flesh. And we have seen the reverence in which they are held by all whose experience of them exceeds our own. When Galt has revealed the will of the Humbled, we will gladly hear the call which summons such horses—aye, and gladly be led by them.”

As she spoke, Bhapa squared his shoulders. His shame was transformed: it became a glow of pride that Linden had never seen in him before. And Pahni’s expressionless stare lost some of its dullness. The prospect of seeing the Ranyhyn again seemed to ameliorate her deep exhaustion and grief.

But Linden’s own anticipation faded almost immediately. She had forgotten Galt’s promise to speak—and she feared what he might say.

Brusquely Stave told Galt, “The time has come. Your silence is both unjust and hurtful. You demean companions who have entrusted their lives to your honor and service.”

His tone doused the rising spirits of the Ramen. A frown gathered on Coldspray’s brow, and Halewhole Bluntfist looked like a woman about to take umbrage. Latebirth betrayed a small wince of surprise.

To Stave, Galt nodded. “I will do so.” Then he turned his head to address the company.

“In the Unbeliever’s absence from himself,” he said as if his words were without portent, “we approve your wish to rely upon the Ranyhyn. Knowing them of old through our memories of the Bloodguard, we do not doubt that they will guide us well.”

Nothing in his tone betrayed the nature of his intentions as he added, “When they have come, and have given their consent to your desires, I will slay the croyel.”

At once, a jolt like the touch of a caesure struck the company. Bhapa cried out in protest, and Mahrtiir’s garrote seemed to leap of its own accord into his hands. “Stone and Sea!” roared Coldspray. “Are you mad, Haruchai?” Two other Giants reached for their swords, but did not draw them.

Stillness clogged the air, making it difficult to breathe. Instinctively Linden sprang toward Jeremiah, drawing obsidian like panic from the Staff of Law. Flame gusted into the sky, as stark and black as the Staff itself: a blare of darkness against the heavens. But she did not see it. She saw only Galt’s impassive mien, and the fraught gnashing of the croyel’s fangs, and the ferocity in its acid eyes.

Mahrtiir and the Ironhand called Linden’s name simultaneously. A stunned turmoil gripped the rest of the company. Galt’s fist tightened on the krill. He gripped Jeremiah’s shoulder harder; studied Linden like a man who never blinked. But Stave reached past her power to set his hand like a barrier between her and Galt.