“That can’t be Alain,” said Julien. “That creature’s nothing more than skin pulled over bones.”

“It’s him,” said Stancy. “Poor boy.” She wiped away tears.

“Stink! Stink!” wailed the child, tugging to break free and run. “He scares me.”

“Hush!” Aunt Bel strode up to them, looked at him hard, and frowned. “Stancy, kill a chicken and get a broth cooking. He’ll not be strong enough to eat solid food. Agnes, I’ll want the big basin tub for bathing him. Outside, though. Julien, haul water and tell Bruno to heat it on the workshop fire. We’ll need plenty. He can’t be chilled.”

Like the chickens, they scattered but to more purpose.

“Dear God,” said Aunt Bel. “That’s a strong smell. We’ll have to Wash him twice over before we bring him inside. I’ll have the girls make a good bed for him by the hearth. He’ll be abed all winter, if he survives at all. He looks more like a ghost than like our sweet lad.”

“He can hear you.”

“Can you hear me, boy?” she demanded. Because it was Aunt Bel asking, he fluttered his eyelids and got out a croak, not much more than a sigh. “It’s a wonder he’s still alive, abused like that.” She made a clucking noise, quite disgusted. “It’s a good thing you went after him, Henri.”

“Don’t let him die, Bel. I failed him once already.”

“It’s true you let your pride get the better of you. You were jealous.”

The movement of Henri’s shoulders, beneath Alain’s chest, betrayed a reaction.

“Nay, there’s nothing more to be said,” retorted Bel. “Let it be, little brother. What’s in the past is gone with the tide. Let him be. I’ll nurse him myself. If he lives, then we can see.”

A drop of moisture fell on Alain’s dangling hand. At first, he thought it might be rain from those brooding clouds, but as they trudged down into the riot of the living, he realized that these were Henri’s tears.

II

THE LUCK OF

THE KING

1

SANGLANT knew dawn came only because he could smell the sun’s rising beyond the haze that concealed all horizons. Ash rained down on his army as they straggled through the scorched forest, dragging their wounded with them. Here and there fires burned in the treetops. Smoke rose, blending with the ash drifting over them. Limbs snapped and crashed to earth to create echoes within echoes as the devastated forest collapsed on itself.

They assembled in their tattered legions around the ancient fortress where Lady Wendilgard had met her death. Up on the height of half fallen walls, Captain Fulk posted sentries to watch over the wounded. The prince stood on the shattered ramp, once a causeway leading up into the fortress and now a series of broken stair steps littered with stones, weapons, and four dead men not yet dragged away. The last surviving troops who had heard the call to sheathe weapons and retreat emerged battered, bruised, and limping from the trees to take up places in the clearing. They were crammed shoulder to shoulder, weary and frightened, and all of them awaiting his command.