Galahad D’Acon nodded. “Your grace, I found Ser John—that is, the Count of Albinkirk—in fine spirits, well dug in with almost five hundred lances at Gilson’s Hole.”

Blanche saw the captain pound a fist into his own left palm—he and Ser Michael shared a grin.

“He reports…” Galahad dropped his voice. “The defeat suffered by the Emperor on Monday at the Inn of Dorling. The Emperor is dead, and his army badly beaten up. He’s mustered more than a thousand survivors at Gilson’s Hole and intends to cover their retreat.”

Blanche saw it on all their faces—all the men and women that she’d come to know on the road. She knew they’d served the Emperor. She knew that they had friends in that army.

She saw Ser Christos, who was always courtly and fine to her with his pretty accent and his funny manners, turn grey and age a year. She saw Michael wince. But most of all she saw Ser Gabriel.

His face did not change. He swallowed carefully, but she’d been watching him for more than a week. She saw the blow go home as surely as if he’d been punched in the jaw.

His voice was even. “And Ser Milus?” he asked.

Galahad knew he was delivering bad news. “No word, my lord, except that your company was not with the Emperor.”

The Red Knight nodded. “Of course not. They lost all their horses. Where is the Emperor’s body?”

Ser Christos looked at him. For the Moreans, it was the right question. She saw that, too.

“At Gilson’s Hole, under the guard of the surviving Nordikaans. Ser John wished to send them here, but not until he feels the road is secure.”

Ser Christos shot to his feet. “I would like to volunteer,” he said thickly. All the Moreans in the hall were on their feet.

Ser Gabriel met the Morean’s eye. He glanced at the Queen. She looked puzzled.

“Go and fetch the Emperor,” he said. “Take fifty knights. Chris, it is all I can spare. You know I would send more.”

Ser Christos bowed. He was crying. He paused to bend a knee to the barbarian Queen, and Ser Alcaeus stepped up behind him.

“Your grace, it is almost a thousand years since an Emperor has been lost in battle,” he said.

Desiderata was not slow. “Please, gentlemen…” she said. She rose. “Please give these gentlemen every assistance. I know that the loss of my husband bade fair to cripple me—I cannot imagine what effect the loss of the Emperor has on his people.”

Ser Gabriel walked with Ser Christos and Ser Alcaeus to the door of the great hall, talking softly. The only thing she heard was, “Don’t let the Nordikaans suicide.”

Then the Moreans were gone, and with them, most of the company knights who had gone to the joust—so long before.