At the Queen_s command

"You know, Captain Strake, you could have been where I am. Well, not truly, since you don't have the blood; but you had the backing of a very powerful family. Had you proven yourself worthy, you would have succeeded in the Army. You might have risen to Major or Colonel. You could be one of the officers out there going to glory."

Owen lifted his head. "Said as if you mean to lead from the front, sir."

"Oh, lead I shall, lead I shall. I'm a Rivendell, ain't I?" The man came around and squared up in front of Owen. "People like you can't understand someone like me. You are incapable of fathoming genius. You fear what you do not understand. That fear marks you as a coward."

Rivendell walked back around his table. "After we had dinner, the Laureate and I had a private conversation. About you, in fact. He said he had forgiven you for spying and had fully intended, once you were well, to return you to Temperance. He said he was relieved to learn you had made it back safely, and said you completely misunderstood the search parties he had sent out after you. He was concerned that in a blizzard, in your weakened state, you would have perished."

Owen's flesh puckered. He wanted to ask if Rivendell believed du Malphias but the man's expression made the question unnecessary. Fatigue washed over Owen. He wanted to lay down and die.

No, you have to be strong, for Catherine.

"You should know, Captain, that I would have put you in the front lines and given you a chance to redeem yourself, but the Laureate himself asked that I refrain. He said he considered you a friend. He did not want to be the cause of your death. He asked me this one indulgence."

"Of course, he did."

"You have not been given leave to speak, Captain!"

"Permission to speak, sir!"

"No, Captain, you shall only impugn the honor of a man who is many times your superior."

Owen met Rivendell's stare and held it until the other man looked away.

"Please yourself, Captain."

"Du Malphias made his request to show me that he still had control over my life. If I die, it will be by his hand, not ill luck in battle. He means to shame me and, after you're defeated, he'll kill me in his own good time."

"That," said Rivendell, "is not something that should concern either of you. By this evening, the Fortresse du Morte shall be mine, and the two of you shall pass into obscurity."

Vlad, furious, yanked his arm from von Metternin's grasp. "I am not a child, my lord!"

"Then you should not act like one, Highness."

The Prince shot von Metternin a venomous glance. "Is it childish to act as if this idiot and his plans won't kill hundreds of my people? Du Malphias has filled his warrens with Ungarakii, pasmortes, and the rest of the Platine Regiment. The stronghold still exists despite having flowers and trees on it. You yourself pointed out that cannon can be redeployed. Can't you see the slaughter that is coming? Or don't you care because these are not your people?"

Count von Metternin's face froze and Vlad knew he had overstepped. "If you believe, Prince Vladimir of Norisle, that I am not as concerned for the lives of men I have spent the last month and a half sweating, toiling, living, and laughing beside, then you are a singularly poor judge of character and perhaps no smarter than the moron whose tent we have just departed."

Vlad nodded. "Forgive me, my lord. Perhaps I am acting childishly. But what am I to do?"

"There is nothing for you to do, my lord."

"How can you say that?"

Von Metternin laughed. "We have been in a trap since the moment your report went to Norisle, Highness. Parliament made decisions based on internal power struggles, not the wisdom of your report. Deathridge and his faction were willing to allow Rivendell this mission because they knew it would fail. And Rivendell, short of his dying in battle, wins. Just getting here is a victory. His failure will be blamed on the inadequacy of Mystrian troops. His career will become retrograde, but none of his backers will be demoted. He was a piece both sides welcomed as a sacrifice."

The two men trudged up the hill toward the wurmrest. "But my people, real people will die because of their game-playing."

"But you must understand that the powerful do not see things as we do. They keep score differently. If they lose a scion here, it is no matter. The death will be honorable, and they will be in mourning-as society dictates. For the common men who will die on the field, they care not. Most are from the underclasses, are thieves and drunkards with no future anyway. Many-and this would apply to your Mystrians-are not even from Norisle. Why should they care if Mystrian blood is spilled?"

"You're saying they have no stake in the game."