He needed more bandages. Tristam prepared to take off his inner tunic, but then Jack’s eyes flew open. The grimace of pain on his face was real this time. Tristam cradled Jack’s head in his arms, looking for a way to distract him.

“This is the second time today a pretty girl has knocked you off your horse,” was all he could think to say.

The corners of Jack’s eyes crinkled. Perhaps he was trying to smile. It was hard to tell. Then his eyes lost their focus, and his head fell to one side. By the time the soldiers arrived, Jack was dead.

Six

S I X

The veteran knights called it battle guilt. They spoke of it as they took Jack’s body away, and as they sat with Tristam in his grief. When you lose a friend in battle, they said, it’s natural to feel like you’re to blame. But don’t let those thoughts consume you. War is fickle. Just fight your best and let the ghosts of every battle rest in peace.

Tristam had heard the lectures before, had even agreed with them and thought them wise. But he hadn’t known how meaningless they would be when confronted with a gravestone, how they crumbled like ashes against the unrelenting accusations in his head. He should have ridden faster. He should have tried harder to get Jack to leave the pen.

The only injury Tristam had sustained was a bruised hip. With every step of his horse, the ache radiated up his back and toward his shoulder. Perversely, he welcomed the pain, even shifted to make it worse. It somehow helped ease the guilt as he traveled the same country road, passing by the curve where Jack had pretended to fall off his horse the day before. The order had come in this morning. The Minister of Defense was investigating the attack and required Tristam’s presence.

The farm was somber after yesterday’s tragedy. The few workers around walked quickly and didn’t acknowledge his presence. Most obvious signs of the attack had been removed; the dead had been buried and the wounded taken to the healers. But it wasn’t possible to erase an attack like that in one day. A gate still hung off its hinges, and the dirt was uneven in places, trampled and churned by panicked crowds. And of course, it took more than one night for blood to wash away. Tristam hesitated at the road before forcing himself onward in disgust. What kind of knight was he, if he couldn’t even return to the scene of a battle?

His mare was skittish about being tied by the road. As Tristam soothed her, a knight in full armor approached. Tristam raised his hand in greeting. “I am Tristam of Brancel.”

The knight nodded. “Malikel wants to speak with you.”

Tristam started. “Sir Malikel? Of the Council?”