They did. The bustle there was still going on, by the light of steel baskets of burning pinewood that lofted trails of sparks like little scarlet-yellow stars. The fire in the clouds westward was dying down, and the sky over the mountains was dark blue, a few first true stars showing. The moon was nearly full, shedding a silvery light almost as bright as the fires. And a timber podium had been set up in front of the manor gates, a simple thing that would raise a few people to about head-height over the pavement. The ground sloped away from there; it would give everyone in the square a view.

More and more people summoned by the bells were pouring in, until the area was packed. Lady Helissent and her mother came out, and her children. Her glance crossed that of her husband; he nodded to her. Ingolf could see something pass between them, knowledge and decision; Helissent’s eyes closed for an instant, and then she took a deep breath and opened them and smiled bravely at the father of her children.

“If you would accompany me, Lord Vogeler, and your good lady?” Maugis chuckled at the look on the older man’s face. “No, I’m not asking you to speak, just to . . . be present.”

The local priest went up the stairs first in his vestments, and intoned a prayer. Nearly everyone crossed themselves and kissed their crucifixes, then joined in the last part of it:

“. . . Dignum et iustum est. Amen.”

Then the lord of Tucannon and his family and guests climbed up. Looking down, Ingolf saw a sea of faces, and at first was conscious mainly of the eyes. The gaudy haughtiness of the knights and their families and households were in the first row, shading backward into the shaggy dun mass of the commons, straw hats and kerchiefs and shock-headed children. There were a scattering of Richlanders and Sioux; even a few of the Boiseans were there, officers who’d given their paroles. Captain Woburn was one of them, his face impassive. The crackle of the fire-baskets ran beneath the sough of breathing.

Almost-silence fell as Lord Maugis stepped forward; then a bow swept through the crowd. The soldiers behind the podium came to attention, thumping their spearbutts and the metal-edged points of their four-foot shields down on the paving blocks. Maugis doffed his hat with a flutter of liripipe and returned the bow, not so deeply but a definite gesture.

“My people,” he said. “My brothers and sisters—for any who fights beside me for this our home I call my brother—we are here tonight to celebrate and to mourn. We fought and beat those who threatened our land, our homes and our families—”