From the ground, she looked up at him. His face was splotchy with bruises. The corner of his eyebrow was clotted with a scab, his lips cut in several places. The sun sank in the orange sky and only the twinkling winks of campfires prevailed on the fields below. She wanted to kiss him goodbye, but she knew he would flinch away from her again.

“I will find you tomorrow, Colvin.”

He smiled at her, hooked one hand around the hilt of his maston sword, then tapped the stallion’s flanks and started weaving through the trees and brush down the hill towards Demont’s camp.

* * *

It was almost midnight and the reveling of the king’s army continued boisterously. The last of the army arrived to a cheer and hurrah that split the night air and frightened the owls and bats. The laughs and clank of arms rose in waves from the sea of tents and pavilions in the fields near Winterrowd. Demont’s army, on the other hand, was subdued and silent. There were no fires that night, just a piece of earth blacker than the rest.

Lia sat at the base of a thick stunted oak, the ash bow across her lap, waiting and fighting her tiredness. The king’s army made a ruckus on purpose, she knew. She recognized it for what it was. They celebrated victory before it happened to fling doubts at their enemies. To show their confidence that winning was foreordained. There were so few in Demont’s camp. A thousand perhaps? Maybe less. She imagined that many were like Colvin – not even knights yet, though most would be mastons. A storm had raged around the abbey the night Scarseth brought Colvin to the kitchen. How long ago it felt. A different world.

Another cheer went up amidst the king’s army – another wave of triumph and laughter, and it almost disguised the noise of cracking twigs and branches. Lia sat up straight, her ears seeking the source of the sound. It came from behind her, the crunch and crackle of hooves and men. A sickening fear swept into her heart, like a cloud blotting out the moonlight. She recognized it instantly. The sick fear of the Myriad Ones. Some were snuffling near her, drawn by her thoughts.

For a moment, she nearly panicked. She was a blot in the dark, smothered by the tree’s shadow. There was only a sliver of moon in the sky. She focused on memories of Muirwood and drew strength from them. The sturdy walls with their grim-faced Leerings. The smell of the kitchen before the first day of the Whitsun Fair. Sneaking a taste of Gooseberry Fool when Pasqua wasn’t looking. A compliment from the Aldermaston.

With those thoughts and the pleasant feelings they coaxed, it was as if her mind opened and she could see things as they really were. The hillside and valley were choked with Myriad Ones as they skulked with the soldiers, prodding them on with their thoughts. The entire meadow was thick with them as they encircled Demont’s camp, grinning, anxious for the smell of blood that would shower the ground at dawn. Her imagination reeled at the enormity of the scene. There were so many! The smoke-shapes thronged in waves, thousands upon thousands. Millions. Everywhere she looked, she saw them. In every blade of grass, in every fallen acorn. Even worse, she could feel them and their thoughts, drunk with the lust for blood and vengeance. They were ready to gorge themselves on the emotions of the battle slaughter.

Lia turned back and looked up the hill, doing her best to stay hidden. Even though it was dark, she could see black riders. Each wore a cloak to hide the glint of their hauberks and breastplates. Each carried a sword – a knight-maston sword – but she could feel the wrongness of it. These were no mastons. They were imposters. The insight came swiftly, like a gulp of air. The king was sending them around to the rear. They would pretend to join Demont’s forces, but turn traitor in the end. The knoll was thick with soldiers and their horses as they lumbered past her solitary hiding place. They moved silently, as silently as they could. Another cheer from the camp rose, and again she realized the purpose. To hide the approach of the traitor-knights. To divert Demont’s attention to the battle in front of him, not the battle behind.

Lia knew she had to warn them. But how?

Gripping the bow, she started down the hillside, moving as quietly as she could. In the dark, it was difficult seeing her footing, and she snapped twigs and brush in her clumsiness.

“Hold. Something is moving down there,” came a whisper from behind. “Morris and Severn, see what it is. Might be a scout. Take your crossbows.”

Lia’s mind blazed with worry. She plunged ahead further, trying only to touch on the grass, but every other step rang out in her ears. The soldiers dismounted and started down the hillside after her.

“I hear it too. Sounds light – like a doe.”

Lia stopped, her heart pounding in her chest. She could not see them in the dark, but she could hear their boots.