But as Ylsa’s armored hand fell on her shoulder in a gesture as much of comfort as a hand in a gauntlet could convey, he watched sense come into her eyes, watched with awe and wonder as she somehow—out of what reserves, he could not even begin to imagine—pulled herself together. She pulled off her gauntlet and wiped her streaming eyes with the back of her hand, then straightened. “You’re right, of course,” she said, in a flat voice. “Myste?”

“Working on it.” He saw that Myste had hauled herself to her feet—

—no, foot, for the other one was held clear off the ground—

—and her Companion was lying down on the ground so she could get into the saddle. She did so with a grunt of pain, leaned over and picked up the bloody, muddy battle banner by a corner of the fabric. Her Companion heaved herself to her feet, rider and all, and Myste manhandled the banner back into its socket. In the next moment, Selenay mounted Caryo, and pulled off her helm so that her golden hair shone in the westering sunlight.

:Heralds of Valdemar—: Myste Mindcalled, the voice echoing painfully in Alberich’s skull. That was a strong Mindcall. :Behold your Queen.:

“Alert remain!” Alberich growled to the remaining bodyguards, and dragged himself back up into the saddle, though a gray film of exhaustion seemed to fog everything.

He made a trumpet of his hands, and shouted what Myste had called out to those with Mindspeech. He was used to bellowing battlefield orders—he put every bit of that into his shout.

“Valdemar! Behold your Queen!”

From that vantage, he watched as slowly, slowly, heads turned toward them, in a wave of motion starting from those nearest the group on the hill until it reached even to where there were knots of fighting still going on.

Myste was right, though; from where he sat, there was more fleeing than fighting, and as combat broke off, those who could still move took advantage of the momentary distraction of their opponents to escape.

There was still a pool of purple between the Valdemaran lines and the hilltop, but it wasn’t moving, and the battle banners were nowhere to be seen. Could the Tedrel High Command actually be dead?

:I think so—: Kantor told him, after a moment. :Yes. Your idea worked. The Fetching-Heralds did it, when Sendar died.:

He winced; for a moment he had difficulty breathing. If only they could have done it before—

So many “if onlys.” Never had a victory felt so much like a defeat.

:The Lord Marshal?: he asked Kantor.

:Coming.:

A strange silence fell over the battlefield; the sunlight glittered on helms, but there wasn’t a single raised sword or spearpoint to be seen. The pressure of thousands of eyes was a palpable force that even Alberich, in his exhaustion, felt.

Then it began, weakly at first, but gathering strength, a sound—

—a cheer—