But they knew, they all knew. It was only a few days east of them, along this same road. A quiet, holy place.

—

Medor was all right. He could even ride. There were doctors with the army (more or less capable, but the best they had). They started back towards Orane that same day. There were hours of sunlight left.

They kept van Aribert with them, for his own safety. It was a certainty he’d be killed by someone in the Barratin army for what he’d done. He could find his sanctuary and a religious life later, King Roch decreed. And indeed, he did live, and he did do so, passing the rest of his days in piety, and contrition. This is also a thing that happens.

The boy travelled with them as well, Barratin’s son. A hostage, but he was also a cousin, family. He was kindly treated. And there was also a likelihood, de Vaux told Thierry on the road, that he’d be safer in Orane than with his older brother who was now, as of this day, the duke of Barratin.

Thierry didn’t know how that worked. It was a world that was alien to him.

Both armies had agreed to withdraw, west, east.

It was over, de Vaux said. For now, he said.

“You always have to say for now,” the constable added. They were drinking wine at sunset where they had stopped for the night. “It is the way of Jad’s world.”

Thierry went to the tent where Medor was.

His friend (his friend) smiled. “I couldn’t let him kill you,” he said. “You were only on that bridge because of me.”

“And everyone was on that bridge—”

“Because of you. I know. Aren’t we powerful men?”

“Mighty in our strength,” Thierry said. “But that makes it twice you have saved my life now.”

“At least twice,” Medor said. “You are a burdensome friend, it seems.”

Thierry smiled at that. So did the other man.

“I…didn’t know you had a knife on the bridge.”

“And why would you know what weapons I carry?”

Thierry sighed. “Are you allowed wine?”

“I believe I am, and would like some urgently, even if not.”

They drank together, saying little, saying much thereby.

—

Earlier, south of the bridge in the vineyard, kneeling near the riverbank, Silvy Gautier felt Gauvard Colle trembling, and she heard him weep, fighting for breath and control.

“What…what were the words you said?” she asked. “I heard them, but I didn’t understand.”

“I don’t know,” he said, a hollow whisper. “I don’t remember any words. What did I say?”

“You said Weaver at the Loom,” Silvy told him.

“I don’t even know what that means!” Gauvard said. “Is he…did you see…is he all right?”

“He walked off the bridge with the others,” Silvy said. “I saw it. I did. Truly.”

She felt like weeping as well.