When he had explained his intentions, he faced the chief warrior. “But understand this, Suti al-Suri,” he said roughly. “Your scouts must not expose themselves. No doubt, they will be tempted to shoot a few soldiers or skirmishers, or even priests.” Against overwhelming numbers, the el-Algreb preferred to strike and run, strike and run. They relished that form of war. “They must not. If they do, they will expose themselves. The enemy will know that we have left the west. He will be ready for us. We cannot help General Klamath if the enemy expects us.”

Suti al-Suri listened with an angry scowl. “I—” he began, wrestling with his instincts. But then he mastered himself. “Tell scouts,” he snarled. “Give order.” The way he said the word betrayed his disgust. “Brother wise. El-Algreb do.”

At once, he surged to his feet and hurried away, shouting as he went.

Sighing, King Bifalt gave one more order. In a tone that did not encourage debate, he put Spliner and Boy in command of the wagons. They were experienced teamsters: the el-Algreb were not.

Boy objected. He seemed to feel that he was being demoted. But his father accepted the task with a curt nod. Long ago, Spliner had killed to save Prince Bifalt’s search for the library. He did not need to prove himself again. Ignoring his son’s arguments, he took Boy to the wagons.

Satisfied, the King rose. Without a word, Prince Jaspid and then Elgart stood as well. Around them, the el-Algreb had finished tending the horses. Grimacing, Bifalt gave in to his impatience.

“That storm will be on us soon!” he called. “We must go!”

When his people were ready, he turned his face to the east. At a hard canter, he led them into the heart of the storm.

PART FOUR

TWENTY-FIVE

ALTERED NEEDS

Shaken by violence, Queen Estie sat with her back against the wall in Tak Biondi’s chamber. Blood still pulsed from the traitor’s eyes and ears, his split forehead, but it was dwindling. The many lights made the pool around his head look black. It stained the stone floor like an accusation.

Third Father remained kneeling in front of Estie with his hands braced on her knees. His arms were all that supported him. Without them, he might have fallen on his side. The cut along his neck was a thin line like the stroke of a quill. It looked shallow. Nevertheless it dripped blood as if it would never stop.

Crouching over Estie, Magister Rummage gripped her shoulder. His fingers dug in as he commanded:

—Rouse yourself, Queen. The blade may have been poisoned.

Poisoned? The thought shook her. Her whole body flinched. The monk had saved her life. She could not bear to lose him.

The hunchback’s grasp was a demand.

—Use your voice!