The river might have receded, but currents of fear lingered. She wondered how many of these guards they rode past had once been soldiers in Urusander’s Legion. Questions of loyalty haunted every street, even here where dwelt the highborn behind high walls. This matter of grievances irritated Hish, since they seemed so ephemeral. If by way of recognition of their service to the realm, these soldiers would now demand coin and land, then the matter of compensation could readily be addressed. Negotiations and honourable brokering could take the place of belligerence. But it was not that simple. From what she could determine, the soldiers yearned for something more, of which coin and land were but material manifestations.

Perhaps it was no more than a meeting of the eye, every station made level, as if birthright were irrelevant. A laudable notion, but one she knew to be unworkable. A realm of nothing but highborn would quickly crumble. Without servants, without workers of crafts – potters and weavers and carpenters and cooks – civilization could not function. But even here, this was not part of the new world as envisioned by the decommissioned soldiers. What they sought was only for them and what they sought was an elevation of their profession, to a level of social importance matching that of the highborn.

It was this that so disturbed her. Soldiers already possessed the means and the skills to impose violence or brandish its threat. To yield and heap wealth and land on them could only nurture the gardens of greed and ambition, and these were poison fruit that every highborn well understood.

Position and privilege imposed responsibilities. Unquestionably the defence of the realm was also a great responsibility. But defence against whom? With all enemies beyond the borders vanquished, who remains to stand in their stead, but those within our borders? An army is a fist poised to strike, but that clenching of fingers and focus of desire cannot be held for ever. It is made to strike and strike it must.

The poor Deniers of the forests and hills were now dying, but these were the lowest of the believers. How soon before the Legion struck the monasteries, and put to flame temples and abbeys? And who could not but see this in the most venal light? None were safe within the borders of Kurald Galain, from the very army created to defend them.

She thought of the highborn as the counterweight to Urusander’s Legion. But we present a sordid example, all things considered. Squabbling among ourselves, scrabbling for the highest elevation above our neighbours, and spitting venom upon the one who stands at Mother Dark’s side, as if questions of justice and propriety did not curdle on our own tongues! No, this was a wretched mess and in many respects the highborn had only themselves to blame. If a soldier risked her or his life, then it should be in defence of worthy things: family, promise, comfort and freedom from strife. But if a trench were cut across such virtues, where so many were left to scramble for the paltry leavings of those who most profited by that soldier’s sacrifice, then it was no wonder that scarred hands should itch.