“Gan, if you don’t keep time, I’ll bring you up here and drill you myself.”

That got a muffled chuckle from the others; apparently it was a familiar threat. The next time Arñe called six, Stammel’s hauk tapped another on his left. His tap was strong, the other’s weak, and the hapless Gan dropped his hauk. “Keep going,” the Marshal said. “Gan—recover on three …”

Stammel’s arms ached; the palms of his hands stung. He ignored that, too. Nothing was as bad as the fire, and it had been years of training, he was sure, that gave him the endurance to survive. He would not quit until he fell over.

The Marshal had other ideas. When the group moved into line-against-line, and Stammel turned about to face the man behind, the Marshal stopped him. “Sergeant, your captain put your health in my care. You have done enough for a first drill. Rest now.”

In truth, he was trembling, but he hated it, quitting in front of the yeomen. He took it as an order, instead of his own will. “Yes, Marshal,” he said, and without a reminder found his way back to the rack to put his hauks away, and—left hand on the wall this time—made it back down the grange, across the terrifying space where he had no wall to guide him, and found the stool he’d been sitting on by barking his shin on it.

He had at least started. He would come back somehow, some way, however long it took. Though what he could do as a blind man—a blind soldier—he could not imagine.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

Vérella

Camwyn, the prince’s younger brother, mounted his horse, first in the procession, and led his friends to the training ground. Today, it would be mounted drill without weapons—not nearly as exciting as knocking the heads off straw-stuffed figures—but at least his brother the prince let him out of the palace. Eight Royal Guards rode with them, in case of attack, and the Royal Guard senior riding instructor, carrying a bundle of flagged sticks to mark points on the field.

Camwyn had missed all the excitement when Verrakai attacked his brother; it was all over by the time the palace guards came to warn him … and arrest Egan Verrakai, Duke Verrakai’s grandson, until that moment one of his own friends. Now Egan was imprisoned, under Order of Attainder, and Mikeli would not relent.

The training field opened out before them as they came through the gates. Camwyn felt like spurring his mount into a gallop, but he had promised Mikeli he’d obey.

“Line up there,” the instructor said. “Straight line, and I want every horse square to it. Guard, place your mounts there—there—and down there.” He rode on, leaning over to place the first stake.

No one argued with him. Boys who argued spent the rest of that lesson on the ground with a shovel and rake, putting horse manure into a sack and dragging tools and sack around the field while their friends rode. Even princes. Camwyn’s horse lined up neatly, but pawed at the ground. On his left, Beclan’s horse shifted its rump from side to side; on his right, Aris’s danced in place. By the time the instructor rode back up the field, the turf under the line of horses was scuffed and torn. He stopped in front of them.