He slid his sword into its scabbard and pulled the javelin from Dawnweave’s neck. Supporting himself on it, he managed to stand. A rider from the Saldaean force trotted up to him, a man with a lean face, a hooked nose, and a set of bushy black eyebrows. He wore a short, trimmed beard, and he raised a bloodied sword to Ituralde. “You live.”

“I do,” Ituralde said as his two guards arrived. “You command this force?”

“For now,” the man said. “I am Yoeli. Can you ride?”

“Better that than staying here.”

Yoeli reached out a hand and pulled Ituralde into his saddle behind him. Ituralde’s leg protested with a flare of pain, but there wasn’t time to wait for a stretcher.

Two other horsemen took Ituralde’s guards onto their horses, and soon they three were riding for the city at a gallop.

“Bless you,” Ituralde said. “It took you long enough, though.”

“I know.” Yoeli’s voice sounded oddly grim. “I hope you are worth this, invader, for my actions this day will likely cost my life.”

“What?”

The man didn’t reply. He simply bore Ituralde on thundering hooves into the safety of the city—such as that safety was, considering the city was now besieged by a force of several hundred thousand Shadowspawn.

Morgase walked out of the camp. Nobody stopped her, though some did give her odd looks. She passed the wooded northern rim. The trees were burloak, spaced apart to allow for their great, spreading arms. She moved beneath the boughs, breathing deeply of the humid air.

Gaebril had been one of the Forsaken.

She eventually found a place where a tiny highland stream filled a cleft between two rocks and created a still, clear pool. The tall rocks around it clustered like an ancient, broken throne built for a giant fifteen spans tall.

The trees bore leaves above, though many looked sickly. A thinner patch of clouds blew past, allowing fingers of sunlight to reach down from the overcast sky. That splintered light shone in rays through the clear water, making patches of light on the pool’s bottom. Minnows darted between the patches, as if investigating the light.

Morgase rounded the pool, then settled atop a flat boulder. The sounds of the camp could be heard in the distance. Calling, posts being driven into the ground, carts rattling on pathways.

She stared into the pool. Was there anything more hateful than being made the pawn of another? Of being forced to dance upon their strings like a wooden puppet? In her youth, she’d grown well acquainted with bowing before the whims of others. That had been the only way for her to stabilize her rule.

Taringail had tried to manipulate her. In truth, he’d been successful much of the time. There had been others, too. So many who had pushed her this way or that. She’d spent ten years pandering to whichever faction was the strongest. Ten years slowly building alliances. It had worked. She’d eventually been able to maneuver on her own. When Taringail had died hunting, many had whispered that his passing released her, but those close to her had known that she had already gone a long way toward unseating his authority.