“My lord.” Lord Blackwood had risen, his weathered face grave. “I’ll send men with you. Twenty of my best—they’ve won their spurs in honest battle. They can ride within the hour.”
Gareth shook his head once. Signed to Will, who’d appeared at his shoulder.Our men only. We ride now.
Will translated.
“Now?” Blackwood’s brow furrowed. “’Tis nigh on sunset. The roads?—”
Now.
He turned back to Marian. The girl swayed on her feet but refused to fall. She’d ridden through the night on a horse she barely knew how to control, armed with nothing but a carving knife and the desperate need to reach him.
You did well,he signed.
Her eyes widened, then narrowed with something fiercer than pride.I know the castle, my lord. Every passage. Everyforgotten door.She straightened despite her exhaustion.Let me come with you. Let me help.
No. You’ve done enough. Rest. Eat.He gripped her shoulder briefly—a gesture of thanks, of respect.When I bring her back, she will want to see you.
When,Marian signed back grinning, a fierce grin.Not if. When.
Gareth nodded, and turned toward the door, his men falling in behind him. The border lord was still talking—offers of support, promises of retribution, all the words men used when they wanted to feel useful. Gareth heard none of it.
There was always a battle to be fought. An enemy to vanquish. This day, the enemy had made his last mistake. He strode out into the fading light, toward the stables, toward the hard ride ahead. Behind him, Marian’s voice rang out—cracked and hoarse, but loud enough to carry:
“Bring her home, my lord!”
He did not turn. Did not sign a response.
But somewhere deep in his chest, where words had once lived, a single thought crystallized into certainty.
It was a good day to die. But not before he’d painted Dunharrow’s stones with Alaric’s blood. Not before he’d held her in his arms again.
The smoke wasvisible three miles out. Gareth pulled his destrier to a halt on the ridge, his men drawing up around him in tense silence. In the valley below, Greywatch Castle stood against the gray sky—intact, thank God, but with dark tendrils still rising from somewhere within the walls. The gates hung open. Even atthis distance, he could see figures moving in the courtyard with the aimless urgency of aftermath.
He was already riding before Will could speak.
They thundered through the gates into a courtyard that smelled of smoke and blood. Scorch marks blackened the eastern wall where someone had tried to set a fire. Dead leaves skittered across the cobblestones like fleeing ghosts. His men—those who’d remained behind—were clearing debris, their movements heavy with exhaustion and grief. Four bodies lay covered near the chapel door. Four men who’d died defending what was his.
Gareth dismounted and strode toward the east tower, his eyes searching the wounded who sat propped against walls and columns.
There.
Bertram sat with his back against the stone, Old Wynne kneeling beside him with bandages and a basin of water. His steward’s face was gray, his chest wrapped in blood-soaked linen—but his eyes were open. Alive. The old man was alive.
Something loosened in Gareth’s chest. One small mercy in a night of horrors.
He dropped to one knee beside Bertram, his hands already moving.You live.
“Apparently.” Bertram’s voice came out as a wheeze, but there was grim humor in it. “The witless bastards thought one sword thrust would be enough to finish me. Should’ve used two.” He coughed, winced, waved away Wynne’s fussing. “Your lady, my lord. I tried to stop them. I tried?—”
I know.Gareth gripped the old man’s hand.Marian told me. You bought her time.
“Not enough time.” Bertram’s eyes glistened. “I failed her. Failed you.”
No.The sign was sharp, emphatic.You stood when others fled. That is not failure.
A commotion near the gates drew his attention. Gareth turned to see Marian riding through on the old mare—the same swaybacked creature she’d ridden through the night to find him. Someone must have found her a proper saddle, she sat straighter now, though exhaustion still lined her young face.
She’d refused to stay behind. Marian slid from the mare’s back and crossed to where Gareth knelt. Her eyes found Bertram first, and her whole body sagged with relief.
