clashes that had disturbed Bulls’ March over the past decade. It was Sir Halebran who had ridden out to capture the Slaver Knight and brought him to justice in Langmyr, no small feat of bravery considering the chances that the Langmyrne would hang him too.
But Sir Halebran was sworn to Breakwall, and it was dead Lord Vanegild, his master, whose cowardice at Widows’ Castle had cost the life of Brisic’s middle son.
That was a stupid campaign and doomed from the start, and Sir Halebran had played no part in its failure—the man wasn’t even anointed as a knight then—but Sir Brisic had never forgiven or forgotten the price of Lord Vanegild’s cowardice. To this day he hated all Breakwall men.
“He’s not even a Bulls’ March man,” Brisic protested when he found his breath again.
“He isn’t,” Leferic agreed, “but he’s steady and competent and he knows how to handle a command. A man can always swear new oaths.”
“The knights’ll be outraged if they hear you’re passing them over to hand Littlewood to a Breakwall man.”
“Sir Halebran has always been loyal to Oakharn. As we all are. He served my father well, and he saved our honor by taking the Slaver Knight. I am certain that the knights of Bulls’ March will welcome him once he swears fealty to my father.” That was a lie too, but there was enough truth in it to make Sir Brisic doubt. “Still, he wouldn’t be my first choice. I would indeed prefer to keep Littlewood in closer hands.”
Brisic grimaced. “Let me talk to my boy. See if I can make him see the light. He’s bent on winning glory over the ironlords, but there’s good sense to what you say. He might do better to stay closer to home.”
“Tell me when you have an answer.” Leferic took another sip of bitterpine tea, pleased that his gamble had paid off so well. He’d made the offer to Brisic rather than Merguil partly because he knew the old knight did not want to lose another son—and there was a very good chance of that happening if Merguil marched against Ang’arta—but also because Merguil was cleverer than his father. The son might have seen through Leferic’s dissembling and pressed for better terms, whereas the father was blinded by his wish to stymie a Breakwall man and win honors for his son.
Know what a man wants, and what he fears, Inaglione had written in his study of the thirteen princes of Ardashir, and he is yours. It was as true today as it had been two hundred years ago. Leferic had Brisic. He would have Merguil. Then he’d have Gerbrand’s head.
CADARN’S MESSAGE CAME TWO DAYS LATER. Lord Ossaric was still on his sickbed, clinging to life while staring at death, and Leferic was glad for any excuse to leave the castle. He’d secured Sir Merguil and ten of his riders to accompany him to Littlewood. Nothing kept him at Bulls’ March.
The rider who carried Cadarn’s tidings, and who was to escort them to Sir Gerbrand, was a broad-shouldered youth named Ulvrar. His long hair was white as ice, and he bore a vicious scar on his left cheek. The scar was similar to the ones Cadarn and all his men wore, but distinct, like a different letter in the same alphabet. Ash had been rubbed into the wound to blacken it.
Leferic wondered how he’d earned it. All Cadarn’s men were exiles, which perplexed him. The tribes of the White Seas did not give up fighting men easily, and by any measure Cadarn’s company was superb. Why had they been allowed to go?
Ulvrar must have caught him glancing at the scar, for less than an hour after they left the castle, the northman reined his horse back to ride alongside the lord. He gave Leferic a long, challenging look, and then deliberately turned away so that the left side of his face was fully exposed. He rode in that fashion, stone-faced, until Leferic waved his knights aside and nudged his own gelding a little closer.
“You want to know why I am marked,” Ulvrar said flatly, without so much as a glance his way, before Leferic could ask.
“I’m curious, yes.” The northerners were a blunt people; Leferic did not think the youth would be offended by his honesty.
If he was, he gave no sign of it. “I was a wildblood. I tried to leave before the third rite. My people exiled me for cowardice.” The youth’s hand strayed toward his cloak