know it from these still, green lawns.
Andry saw the Hill’s shadow every morning from the training yards of the New Palace, the silhouettes of
the stones like fingers against the sky. They reached for him now, white marble and black granite, their
grip unbreakable. With me, they hissed in a thousand weaving voices. With me, Sir Grandel moaned,
dying again.
His breath came hard and fast as he walked, his pulse thrumming in his ears. Sweat dripped through his
short-cropped hair. He tried to think not of Sir Grandel’s corpse, but of his tombstone. It was already
waiting, flanked by headstones for the Norths, surrounded by a forest of graves for dead knights. The
funeral would be a large affair, with even the Queen in attendance. It had somehow taken weeks to plan,
though the coffins would be empty.
He passed through the gates of the cemetery with the rest of the squires, wellborn boys in service to the
great knights of the kingdom. The knights themselves were all on horseback, in gleaming armor with
cloaks of all colors. Behind the squires came the pages, some as young as seven, dressed in light
summer tunics to match their knights. Andry glanced back to see a pair shoving each other silently. In
jest or rivalry, he did not know. Most squires grew out of that sort of thing.
Most.
An elbow dug into Andry’s ribs. He barely felt it. There was far more to think about—getting his mother
out of Ascal, the festering army at the border, the empty graves ahead, the sword hidden, the Spindle
torn, the whispers that greeted him every morning.
“I’m talking to you, Trelland,” someone said harshly. The elbow struck again.
Andry clenched his jaw. He did not need to look to know it was Davel Monne, who the boys all called
Lemon for his name, his yellow hair, and especially his sour disposition. Like the rest of the squires,
Lemon’s hair was cut short, but it sprouted like horrible weeds.
“I deserve to know what happened, same as you,” Lemon hissed, his pale face spotted with freckles.
His red surcoat flapped in the breeze, the falcon sigil of the North family worked in eye-catching silver.
Andry’s own was gray quartered with sky blue for Sir Grandel. “I was Sir Edgar’s squire. It’s my right to
know.”
Andry kept silent. Even stupid Lemon knew the story being passed through the halls of the palace, the
falsehoods born of the Queen: Jydi raiders, a slaughter in the hills of the border. Other rumors were
being woven too. The most popular was a Treckish ambush meant to look like the Jydi, soldiers
disguised in furs with axes instead of swords.
“You have the right to be quiet, Lemon,” he said. “Show some respect to our lords.”
Lemon bared his teeth. They were yellow as his hair. “There’s our Andry, too good for the rest of us.”
He didn’t flinch. It was a familiar gibe, easy to ignore, following him from his earliest days as a page. And
a compliment, even if Lemon is too stupid to know it.
“Is that why you’re still alive? Too good for the Jydi wolves to howl over?” Though Lemon was a head
shorter than Andry, he was far broader and used his bulk well. He shouldered his way past, knocking
Andry aside. His voice rose, loud enough for the other squires to hear. “You wouldn’t see me on the Hill,
with my lord dead and me still walking the Ward. That’s for certain. Can’t imagine the shame of it.”
Andry flushed darker than Lemon’s surcoat. Lemon did not miss it, leering at him, goading him to
respond.
I feel that shame every day! he wanted to shout back. But he kept silent, his teeth locked tight, his feet
still marching in time with the rest. He’s never seen true battle. None of the squires have, Andry knew,
glancing around at his fellows. Though they marched together, the others felt so far away. They don’t
know what it’s like.
Lemon glared, dagger-eyed.
He’s only jealous. I rode with the knights while he stayed behind.
The envy goes both ways.
Again Lemon knocked his shoulder, and again Andry did nothing.
There are worse things in this world than you, Davel Monne, and they’re coming for us all.
The procession reached the sector of the Hill reserved for knights of the Lionguard, who spent their lives
protecting the royal family of Galland: Sir Tibald Brock. Sir Otton of the Castlewood. Sir Konrada Kain,
the only woman to serve in the Lionguard, who fell defending her
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