“Beloved” was excellent; men (and presumably women too) fought fiercely for something that was “beloved.” And should anything happen to Sendar, his daughter stood a fighting chance of being able to take up the reins without a pause or hesitation. Nor, should the worst happen, was there now any chance that another contender could take the throne away from her—not that any Herald would try, but he had to operate on the assumption that there could always be someone willing to attempt a coup. Certainly, the common people, the Guard, and the army would support her without a second thought, should a would-be usurper appear. He hadn’t revealed that part of his plan to anyone, not even Kantor—though he had the feeling Kantor had guessed it and approved. As Sendar would approve, if he ever learned it himself.

Selenay, of course, would be horrified, which was why she would never hear of it.

Now he sat in Kantor’s saddle, under a clear, summer sky, with dew still wet on the grass. The planning was over; it was too late now to wonder if they had overlooked anything.

For now it all came down to this: two massive armies, both rested, facing each other across firm ground. The Tedrels had taken their time getting here, and they seemed unsurprised to find the Valdemaran Guard waiting for them. “Seemed” was the operable word, since there was no way of knowing for certain if they were surprised or not; when the Tedrels began to move, Sendar ordered the spies out and back home.

(And they made it; somehow, they all made it, though not entirely intact. A couple were injured escaping, but escape they did, and the last of them had come over the Border two days ago.)

Alberich hoped that was a good omen. He could use a good omen, for he was not at all confident about this final confrontation. Of all the times to have some handle on the future, this would have been the best, for the sake of his own spirits, if nothing else—so of course, he got no inklings at all. If the Tedrels, or the Sunpriests, were blocking ForeSight, they were doing a good job of it, if he couldn’t even get a hint of what this day would bring. All he felt was akin to having an enormous wave cresting a furlong above him, about to crash down on him, and the sense that nothing he could do would get him out of the way. Which was, in a figurative sense, exactly what was about to happen. He wouldn’t describe the feeling as “impending doom” precisely, but it certainly was a sense that events were about to overwhelm him.