Then his eyes lighted on Myrrima, and there was such admiration in them that his glance took her breath away.

“And what have we here, a swordswoman? A noble?”

Myrrima looked down at her hands folded in her lap, more from shyness than from respect.

“A friend . . . of your son’s. I’m betrothed to one of your guard—Borenson. I came to be with him. I’m no swords-woman, but I can cook a good stew, and I can wrap bandages.”

“I see,” Orden said softly. “Borenson is a worthy man. I had not known he was betrothed.”

“Only recently,” Myrrima said.

“Milady, he has not reached the castle yet. I’d hoped he would have come by now, but I left him with an assignment at Castle Sylvarresta. I hope to see him shortly, but to tell the truth, Raj Ahten’s troops will also reach us soon. I cannot say who will reach us first.”

“Oh,” Myrrima said, thinking furiously. Borenson did not expect her, and she had not imagined he would be occupied elsewhere. She had no illusions about how well this battle might go. But in the short time she’d had with Borenson, she’d grown to see how important devotion was to him. It did not occur to her to think that he might have failed his mission, that Borenson might already have died.

She wanted to be with him now, in his hour of need. For in her family, devotion to loved ones was all that had ever allowed them to survive.

Myrrima licked her lips. “I’ll wait for him here, if you don’t mind.”

38

THE HOPE

Just after dawn, Iome and Gaborn rode to the tiny village of Hobtown, twenty-two miles northwest of Longmot. Hob-town was a collection of fifteen cottages with a smithy. But on Saturdays, like today, a few farmers brought merchandise to town to exchange.

So when Gaborn, Iome, and King Sylvarresta rode into the village, a couple of people had already wakened. The horses needed food and rest.

Iome spotted a young woman, perhaps twelve, digging onions and leeks from her garden. Clover grew high next to the garden fence. Iome called out, “Excuse me, good lady. May we let our horses graze on your clover?”

The girl said, “Of course, you’re welcome to . . . it.” She’d turned at the last moment, and froze at the sight of Iome.

“Thank you,” Gaborn said. “We’d gladly pay, if we may purchase something for breakfast.”

The girl turned, stared at Gaborn, pointedly avoiding the sight of Iome, trying to regain her composure. “I have bread from last night, and some meat,” she offered, delighted at the prospect of money. In a farming community such as this, barter was the norm, and a man could live from one season to the next without feeling the weight of a worn coin in his palm.

“Please, that would be good,” Gaborn said.