than with Sadye leaving his bed to come to Aydrian's private room.
The fierce monk said nothing, though, just placed his arm behind Sadye as she walked out, ushering her all the more quickly.
Aydrian leaned over and blew out the candle, then sat alone in the darkness. He considered De'Unnero and Sadye for only a moment, and was far more amused than concerned.
Then he thought of the village they would enter in the morning, and he was indeed relieved at Sadye's words that the scouts believed that this one, too, would succumb to the rule of the new king without confrontation.
Yes, Duke Kalas and his minions could roll over any feeble force that the quiet villages north of Ursal might offer. But better for them all if the people continued to follow the lead of their nobles, strengthening Aydrian's hold even more upon the kingdom.
And better, Aydrian understood - though he did not openly admit it, even to himself - for his own peace of mind and his own contented slumber.
Duke Kalas and his Allheart Knights, all resplendent in the shining, meticulously crafted and fitted silvery armor, led the march into Pomfreth, as they had led the way into every village since the march from Ursal had begun. Not far to the east, the Ursal fleet, River Palace among them, cruised the Masur Delaval. And behind the ranks of the Allheart Brigade clustered ten thousand soldiers, all formed in tight ranks, showing the discipline of a trained army. In their center, atop a magnificent black stallion, sat King Aydrian, and his armor outshone that of the Allhearts. Specially made and fitted by a legendary smith, and enhanced by Aydrian with several magical gemstones, it offered better defenses for its wearer than any other suit of metal in all the world.
The Allheart armor was comprised of overlapping silvery plates, but Aydrian's was trimmed not only in silver, but with gold. Dark lodestones were set in a circular pattern about a gray hematite that was placed directly over Aydrian's heart. His helm was bowl-shaped, less ornamented than Duke Kalas' plumed helm, perhaps, but designed to give the great young warrior complete visibility. Lined in gold, it tapered down the back of Aydrian's head and neck, but in the front, it only covered halfway, to the bridge of his nose, with thin golden strips outlining his blue eyes as if they were the wide-cut strips of a bandit's mask.
To Aydrian's right sat Marcalo De'Unnero, dressed in the simple brown robes of an Abellican brother, his face locked in its seemingly perpetual scowl. He had brought quite a number of the younger brothers from St.
Honce along with him on the march, mostly to serve as replacements in the chapels where village priests didn't appreciate or embrace the change that he was bringing to the Church.
To Aydrian's left sat Sadye, her three-stringed lute slung across her back, the wind blowing her brown hair, which was growing quite long again, across her face.
In the distance to the north, they heard the cheering.
Sadye looked up at Aydrian, whose face showed a clear sign of relief.
Apparently the reports were true and he would be welcomed as an accepted king, not as an enemy conqueror.
They sat and waited a bit longer, until Duke Kalas and his entourage came galloping back out from the cluster of houses.
"Form up to march through," Aydrian told the commanders sitting astride their mounts in a line behind him. "You will camp north of Pomfreth this night. We march tomorrow at dawn."
The commanders broke ranks immediately and with practiced discipline.
With every town they encountered, there were two routes, march through or overrun, and thus far, the latter had not proven necessary. Still, Aydrian and all the others understood that the farther north they marched, the more likely they were to encounter resistance. And, of course, Palmaris lay at the end of this northern road, where Bishop Braumin would not likely prove so accommodating.
The seventy-five Allhearts galloped into formation beside and behind their king, and Aydrian nodded to De'Unnero and to Sadye, thus beginning the triumphant parade into Pomfreth.
All the peasants lined the main road through the small village, cheering wildly for "King Aydrian!" and waving towels at the young man as he paced his mount, the legendary Symphony - the horse his father had ridden to the Barbacan to defeat the demon dactyl - slowly through the town. He nodded to the people every so often, but mostly he watched the road before him, aloof and