Harathes was already opening his mouth to rebut that presumption, probably by way of giving away all the covert details of their plan, and Dion surprised herself by treading hard on his foot.

“We are about the Light’s work,” she insisted. “I put myself forward to be examined by your own priests or magicians, who will surely see the Light within me.” And again she heard her voice falter over that “surely.” Her own reserves of certainty had run dry.

“We’ve had a bevy of diviners looking the lot of you over,” Estellan said matter-of-factly. “So, mixed bag, isn’t it?” And she looked again at Enth and Dion’s heart sank.

And yet the Lord Commander turned and marched out, beckoning them to follow. It would have seemed a complete victory if not for the score of knights who were keeping pace with them.

They broke out into a broad courtyard overhung with crenellations, crowded with the busyness of military preparation. Here were archers and crossbowmen practicing their aim, smiths beating out repairs or sharpening blades. Here soldiers were being fitted with armor in one corner, while in another a handful of warhorses were being put through their paces by the grooms. And elsewhere—

“Ghants!” Cyrene spat out, hand going to sword, and there they were—at least two score of the gray-faced near-human creatures, unmolested and armed in the stronghold of the Light.

“Hold!” Estellan stated, and there was enough authority in her voice to rein in the lot of them. “They’re turncoats, come over here to fight against Darvezian.”

“That makes no sense!” Harathes protested, and the Lord Commander fixed him with a metal stare.

“There are thousands of Ghantishmen on the far side of the Bone Vice, young knight,” she told him, “and they are slaves to the Dark Lord, his playthings, to be cast against walls like these and spent, and bred for more. Small wonder they hate him more than we ever could, though for most of them, they fear him even more, and do his bidding for that reason. But always some few will break away and come to us, and we make a regiment of them, and they fight.”

“You trust them?” Cyrene demanded.

“They have proved themselves to me, and to all of us,” Estellan said sternly. “And you’re in no position to point fingers, now, are you?” She shook her head. “You’ve come with letters from the Potentate. If you have some mad plan to go piss on Darvezian’s doorstep then I don’t care enough to stop you. Perhaps you’ll even do some good. For now, you may rest and equip here and I’ll let you out with my next detachment of scouts. And then you’re your own problem. I’m not responsible for you, nor will I risk the lives of my soldiers to recover your bodies.”