He slept for a time, untroubled by the whimpers and cries of the wounded crowding the tent. Messengers and captains came to her throughout the night, all turned away by Murel and Iltis. She stayed and watched Count Marven until the swell of his chest had stopped and all colour faded from his face.
“Murel,” she said, the lady moving to crouch at her side. The flesh around her left eye was a deep shade of purple and she bore a three-inch row of stitches across her cheek. “Make a note. A grant of land for Countess Kerisha Marven of Nilsael and sufficient funds for the construction of a castle.”
“Yes, Highness.” Murel hesitated, gaze intent on Lyrna’s face. “You must sleep, my queen.”
She shook her head. Sleep meant dreams, and she knew what they would show her. “Ask Brother Kehlan for something to keep me awake. And tell Brother Hollun I require a full account of our losses.”
? ? ?
The blond sister named herself as Cresia, standing with head lowered as the body of her Aspect burned behind her. Lyrna had watched them say their words, these few survivors of a greatly diminished Order, each stepping forward with a story of kindness, wisdom or courage. Lord Nortah was also there, along with Brother Sollis and many of the Sixth Order. The Lord Marshal had faltered during his words, a tale of their time in the Martishe Forest, left unfinished as he fell silent, staring at the body on the pyre as if in incomprehension. “He never got to meet his nieces and nephews,” he said finally, voice faint and empty of feeling. “For he was my brother, and I know they would have loved him.”
“By any measure Aspect Caenis was a great man,” Lyrna had said. “A greatness revealed only recently, but bright enough to outshine us all. It will be known forever more that this man never faltered in his course, never shied from the hardest duty and gave everything in service to Realm and Faith.”
There were other fires to light of course, more words to say. Murel, Iltis and Davoka waited at Benten’s pyre and the plain was liberally dotted with more. In accordance with tradition soldiers from the same regiment were being committed to the flames together, meaning there were dozens of fires, rather than thousands.
“Your Order has made its choice then?” she asked Sister Cresia.
The young woman hugged herself tight, hair covering her lowered face like a veil. “Yes, Highness. Though I begged them to choose another.” Her hair parted as she lifted her face to regard the pyre, Aspect Caenis now just a dark shape amidst the flames. “I can never be him. He was . . . great, as you said.”
“War has a tendency to rob us of choices, Aspect. Get some rest. Tomorrow I shall require an accounting of your numbers.”
“There are twenty-three of us left, Highness,” Cresia told her. “The Seventh Order was never overly numerous, perhaps four hundred souls at its strongest.”
“You will rebuild, in time.”
Cresia lowered her gaze once more and Lyrna had little difficulty discerning her thoughts. Another battle like this and there will be nothing left to rebuild.
? ? ?
The early-morning sun played over the river’s churning current, raising a fine mist from the waters. Aspect Arlyn stood alone on the bank, his red armour gone now, a tall figure in a blue cloak no doubt taken from the body of a fallen brother. Brother Ivern stood nearby, bowing with a weary smile as she approached. Lyrna wondered if he was there as guard or gaoler.
“Has he spoken?” she asked.
“A little, Highness. He asked after Aspect Grealin, and Lord Vaelin.”
“What did you tell him?”
Ivern seemed puzzled by the question. “Everything. He is our Aspect.”
She nodded and moved to the Aspect’s side, Brother Verin keeping within ten feet of her as ordered. Arlyn turned to her, dipping his head in the shallow bow he had always offered to her father and brother. His expression was sorrowful, as might be expected, but she also discerned a judgemental cast to his gaze, one she knew he had never been shy in showing to Janus.
“Highness,” he said. “Please accept my condolences on the loss of King Malcius.”
“Thank you, Aspect. Though we have all suffered losses.”
His eyes flicked to Brother Verin. The young Gifted had seen much since taking ship with her and was less inclined towards displays of nerves, though he still squirmed a little under the Aspect’s gaze.
“I have learned caution in dealing with those who have met the Empress,” Lyrna said.
The Aspect nodded in placid acceptance and turned back to the river. They were parallel with the point where the Arisai had made their crossing, the current more disturbed here than elsewhere, churning white where it met the bank. “How was it made?” Lyrna asked. “The causeway. Lady Alornis considers it quite the feat of engineering.”
“With brick, bone and blood,” he replied. “Three thousand slaves labouring for ten days at my command. The river is swift, as you see, and the Arisai found much amusement in the whip. By the end there were barely five hundred slaves left.”