For in the long run, Iome knew full well, her family could not afford such reconciliations: it was only a matter of time before Raj Ahten, the Wolf Lord of Indhopal, made war against the combined kingdoms of Rofehavan. Though traders from Indhopal crossed the deserts and mountains now, next year—or the year after—the trading would have to stop.

Why not stop the trading now? Iome wondered. Her father could seize the merchandise brought by the foreign caravans—starting the war he’d long hoped to avert.

But she knew he would not do it. King Jas Laren Sylvarresta would not start a war. He was too decent a man.

Poor Chemoise! Her betrothed lay near death, and would not be avenged.

The girl had no one. Chemoise’s mother had died young; her father, a Knight Equitable, had been taken captive six years ago while on a quest to Aven.

“Thank you for the news,” Iome told Corporal Clewes. “I will discuss this matter with my father.”

Iome hurried up now to the knot of soldiers. Sergeant Dreys lay on a pallet in the green grass. An ivory-colored sheet lay over Dreys, pulled up almost to his throat. Blood looked as if it had been poured liberally over the sheet, and it frothed from the corner of Dreys’ mouth. His pale face was covered in sweat. The slant of the morning sunlight left him in shadows.

Corporal Clewes had been right. Iome should not have seen this. All the blood, the smell of punctured guts, the impending death—all nauseated her.

A few children from the castle were up early and had gathered to witness the sight. They looked up at Iome, shock and pain in their eyes, as if hoping that she could somehow smile and set this whole tragic thing aright.

Iome rushed to one small girl of nine, Jenessee, and put an arm around the girl, then whispered, “Please, take the children away from here.”

Shaking, Jenessee hugged Iome briefly, then did as told.

A physic knelt over Dreys. Yet the physic seemed in no hurry. He merely studied the soldier. When he saw Iome, saw her questioning look, the physic just shook his head. He could do nothing

“Where is the herbalist, Binnesman?” Iome asked, for the wizard was this physic’s superior in every way.

“He’s gone—to the meadows, gathering costmary. He won’t be back until tonight.”

Iome shook her head in dismay. It was a terrible time for her master physic to be out hunting for herbs to drive spiders from the castle. Yet she should have known. The nights were growing colder, and she herself had complained to Binnesman yesterday about spiders seeking warmth in her rooms.

“I fear there is nothing I can do,” the physic said. “I dare not move him more, for he bleeds too badly. I cannot sew the wounds, but dare not leave them open.”