A grey-beard in scholar’s robes, whose eyes twinkled beneath his fiercesome brows; Malthus, it seemed, had a kindness for children. A frowning Borderguardsman in a dun cloak. An Ellyl lordling, whose light step left no trace on the dusty road. An Arduan woman in men’s attire, her longbow unstrung at her side. A young knight sweating in full Vedasian armor.

A man with nut-brown skin and a rounded belly.

A nut-brown boy with wide dark eyes and a flask about his neck.

They sang as they traveled, the Charred Folk. Monotonously, incessantly. Thulu, the fat one, sang in a bass rumble. Sometimes Carfax listened, and heard in it the deep tones of water passing through subterranean places, of hidden rivers and aquifers feeding the farthest-reaching roots of the oldest trees. The boy Dani sang too, his voice high and true. It was most audible when running water was near. Then his voice rose, bright and warbling. Like rivers, like streams, bubbling over rocks.

Children noticed.

Malthus the Counselor noticed, too, his keen ears and eyes missing little. He nodded to himself, exchanged glances with Blaise of the Borderguard, with Peldras the Ellyl, nodding with satisfaction and fingering the ruby-red Soumanië hidden beneath his beard. Everything, it seemed, went according to Malthus’ plan.

Old man, Carfax thought, I hate you.

And since there was nothing else for him to do, his flesh and his will bound and circumscribed by the Counselor’s Soumanië, Carfax rode alongside them, ate and slept and breathed road-dust, keeping the silence that was his only protection, watching and hating, willing them harm. Sometimes, the children stared at him. What did they see? A man, dusty and bedraggled, his tongue cleft to the roof of his mouth. Deaf and dumb, they thought him. Betimes, there were taunts. Carfax endured them as his due.

What folly, to think Malthus would have surrendered his Soumanië!

Sometimes there were couriers, royal couriers, carrying the standard of Port Calibus. They traveled in pairs. One would sound the silvery horn, hoisting the standard high to display a pennant bearing an argent tower on a mist-blue field. Other sojourners cleared the well-kept road in a hurry at the sight of it, including Malthus’ Company. The old wizard would stand with his head bowed, one hand clutching beneath his beard, muttering under his breath. Whatever charm it was, it worked. The Vedasian couriers took no notice of them.

Within days of their arrival, they began to see companies of knights headed east on the Traders’ Route. Twenty, forty at a time, riding in orderly formations, baggage trains following. More and more frequently couriers appeared, stitching back and forth the length of the country, horns blowing an urgent warning. Commitments were asked and given, numbers were tallied, supplies were rerouted. The rumors were spoken in a whisper, became news, stated aloud.

Vedasia was committing its knights to war.