He gazed at them in the Ravensmirror; small figures, but doughty, gnarled, and weathered as ancient roots, trudging through the tall grass alongside the gleaming knights of Vedasia. Their strong hands clutched axes and scythes; good for cutting stock, good for shearing flesh. What had inspired them to war?

“Malthus,” Lord Satoris whispered, his fists clenching. “What have you done?”

Malthus the Wise Counselor was there, the clear gem ablaze on his breast, the Spear of Light upright in his hand; he was there, they all were. Aracus Altorus, riding beneath the ancient insignia of his House; Blaise Caveros beside him, steady and loyal. There was the Borderguard of Curonan, with their dun-grey cloaks. There were all the others; Pelmarans in forest-green, Duke Bornin of Seahold in blue and silver, a motley assortment of others. Midlanders, Free Fishers, Arduan Archers. Ah, so many! Ingolin the Wise, and his Rivenlost Host, shining in stern challenge. There was no attempt to hide. Not now, no longer. Even the archers paid the circling ravens no heed; conserving their arrows, concealing nothing.

They were coming, parting the tall grass as they rode.

“Come,” Lord Satoris crooned. “Come.”

The Ravensmirror turned and turned, and there was a reflection of ravens in it; a twice-mirrored image of dark wings rising in a beating cloud, carried on a glossy current of dark wings. Tanaros frowned and blinked, then understood. They had been feasting on the pile of Staccian dead he had left on the plains for Haomane’s Allies to find. There were the headless bodies, heaped and abandoned. There were Haomane’s Allies, reading the message he had scratched onto the marker stone. A ripple ran through their ranks. There was Malthus, bowing his head in sorrow, grasping his gem and murmuring a prayer, white light blazing red between his fingers. There was Aracus Altorus, turning to face them, drawing his sword and speaking fierce words; an oath of vengeance, perhaps.

Vorax licked dry lips and glanced sidelong at Tanaros. “How long?”

“A day’s ride,” Tanaros said. “At their pace, perhaps two.” He watched fixedly, trying to decide which of them he despised the most. Aracus Altorus, with his arrogant stare and Calista’s faithless blood running in his veins? Malthus the Counselor, Haomane’s Weapon, the architect of this war? Or perhaps Ingolin the Wise, Lord of the Rivenlost. What an honor it was he had deigned to lead his people into battle, how conscious he was of it!

And then there was Blaise of the Borderguard; his own kinsman, many generations removed. How proud he was to be at the right hand of the Scion of House Altorus! How determined he was to make amends for his ancestor’s treachery! Tanaros narrowed his eyes, studying the Borderguardsman’s seat, the way his hand hovered near his hilt, gauging his skills.