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cooperated?”
    Wesson grimaced. “Yes. Mostly. Some of the knights…ah, are not pleased about following the orders of a Jutai woman.” 
    “They should learn to be pleased about it,” said Adalar. “Lord Mazael gave her the command until he arrives.” 
    Talchar made a displeased noise. “Too many of the lords and knights have grown friendly with the Tervingi.”
    “Isn’t that a good thing?” said Adalar. “Less of a chance of a civil war in the Grim Marches, and that would benefit no one.”
    “The Tervingi have learned to live in peace with the Marcher folk,” said Talchar, “but the Jutai are not the Tervingi, and the Tervingi hate us.” The red crystal of his left eye flashed in the light of the setting sun. “Many of the Marcher folk have come to agree with the Tervingi.”
    “They wouldn’t dare attack you,” said Adalar. “I imagine Lord Mazael takes a dim view of his vassals attacking each other.”
    Wesson snorted. “Look what he did to Earnachar.” 
    “And Earnachar was controlled by one of those damned heart spiders,” said Adalar. 
    “Aye, lads,” said Talchar, “but there are long leagues of country between killing a woman and obeying her.” 
    There were, in fact, all sorts of things one could do with a woman rather than killing her or obeying her…
    Adalar grimaced and shook his head.
    “What?” said Wesson. 
    “Nothing,” said Adalar. “Let’s speak with Sigaldra. She ought to know that we’re ready for the valgasts.”
    “Or as ready as we’ll ever be,” said Talchar. 
    Adalar shrugged, adjusting the weight of his greatsword in its sheath over his shoulder. More than once other knights had tried to convince him to use a longsword and a shield, but he was used to the weapon. Besides, a greatsword had its advantages. 
    “If I know much of war for a young man,” said Adalar, “then I know that something always goes wrong.” Talchar guffawed at that. “Come. We should speak with the holdmistress.” 
    He led the way around the circle of pavilions, making their way to the eastern side the camp, the side facing away from the foothills and towards the Grim Marches proper. He saw a small band of horsemen there, flying a white banner with the sigil of a castle tower atop a mountain peak. If Adalar remembered rightly, that was the banner of Lord Robert Highgate. A stray bit of gossip came to the forefront of Adalar’s thoughts. Lord Robert had become betrothed to a Tervingi holdmistress for his latest wife, and might have absorbed some of the dislike of the Tervingi for the Jutai. 
    Adalar spotted the young knight leading the horsemen. It was Sir Rufus Highgate, the son of Lord Robert. Like Adalar, he had once been a squire for Mazael himself, and he had only been knighted a few months earlier. Right now the expression on the young knight’s face warred between anger and uncertainty. 
    Sigaldra stood facing Rufus, and there was no uncertainty on her face, only anger. 
    She usually looked angry. 
    The last holdmistress of the Jutai was young, perhaps Adalar’s own age, and wore a tan dress and heavy boots beneath chain mail. Her great mass of blond hair had been pulled away from her lean face and into a thick braid that hung to her hips, making her stark cheekbones seem all the sharper. Her blue eyes were cold and hard and bloodshot, her mouth a thin, unsmiling line. A short sword and a quiver of arrows hung from her belt, the end of a bow rising over her shoulder. She was a beautiful woman, but it was the beauty of a flower killed by an early frost, cold and hard and dead. 
    Ever since the Prophetess had taken her sister, that anger had not left her. 
    Around Sigaldra stood several of her bondsmen, all armed for battle. Adalar spotted the blacksmith Vorgaric, a hulking, balding man who carried his heavy hammer as easily as if it had been made of paper. All the Jutai bondsmen were gripping weapons, and looked as if they were about to attack Sir Rufus and his