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“You have the right to bequiet, Lemon,” he said. “Show some respect to our lords.”

Lemon bared his teeth. They were yellow as his hair. “There’s our Andry, too good for the rest of us.”

He didn’t flinch. It was a familiar gibe, easy to ignore, following him from his earliest days as a page.And a compliment, even if Lemon is too stupid to know it.

“Is that why you’re still alive? Too good for the Jydi wolves to howl over?” Though Lemon was a head shorter than Andry, he was far broader and used his bulk well. He shouldered his way past, knocking Andry aside. His voice rose, loud enough for the other squires to hear. “You wouldn’t see me on the Hill, with my lord dead and me still walking the Ward. That’s for certain. Can’t imagine the shame of it.”

Andry flushed darker than Lemon’s surcoat. Lemon did not miss it, leering at him, goading him to respond.

I feel that shame every day!he wanted to shout back. But he kept silent, his teeth locked tight, his feet still marching in time with the rest.He’s never seen true battle. None of the squires have,Andry knew, glancing around at his fellows. Though they marched together, the others felt so far away.They don’t know what it’s like.

Lemon glared, dagger-eyed.

He’s only jealous. I rode with the knights while he stayed behind.

The envy goes both ways.

Again Lemon knocked his shoulder, and again Andry did nothing.

There are worse things in this world than you, Davel Monne, and they’re coming for us all.

The procession reached the sector of the Hill reserved for knights of the Lionguard, who spent their lives protecting the royal family of Galland: Sir Tibald Brock. Sir Otton of the Castlewood. Sir Konrada Kain, the only woman to serve in the Lionguard, who fell defending her king at the Battle of the Lanterns. Andry wondered if their ghosts would be here to welcome their brothers and guide them into the realm of the gods.

But the ghosts of Sir Grandel and the Norths are far away, if they even exist at all.

A pavilion looked over the grave sites, its chairs empty, shaded by a canopy of green silk. The Queen and her own entourage had not yet arrived.

While the knights dismounted, their squires moved in a flurry to grab reins and tend horses, allowing the lords to line up in their ranks. The pages kept out of the way, shunted to one side. Of the squires, only Andry, Lemon, and Sir Raymon’s boy, Karl Daspold, had no one to serve. Karl was as kind as Lemon was cruel and kept himself between the two. A dog trailed at his heels, a shaggy yellow hound. It looked up with baleful eyes, waiting for a master who would not return.

Three wagons brought up the empty caskets, each hung with silk. Red with the silver falcon for the Norths, gray and sky blue check for Sir Grandel. A detachment from the palace garrison escorted each wagon as it was wheeled into place aside the pavilion. Even before the arrival of the Queen, Andry guessed there were near a hundred men and boys gathered to pay respects.Sir Grandel would have liked that,he knew. Sir Grandel had flourished under attention.

The Queen arrived with a somber call of trumpets. Andry glanced over her entourage—Lord Konegin and his trollish son were easy to recognize, and Lord Thornwall was known even to the pages. As the supreme commander of Galland’s great army, he lived in a grand set of rooms in the palace barracks and visited the yards often. Knights and squires alike bloodied each other hoping for his attention.

Right now, Andry only wanted to be forgotten and overlooked. He lowered his eyes, praying the rest of the great lords and ladies passed without paying him any mind.

But it was impossible to ignore the Queen herself. When she dismounted her horse, everyone knelt. Andry glanced up through his lashes, glimpsing Erida of Galland. His jaw clenched again, this time with frustration.

The Lionguard surrounded her, their armor like the sun, their cloaks catching the warm breeze. Andry saw the faces of Sir Grandel and the Norths beneath every helm, their eyes unfocused, dark, dead.As all will be if we don’t do something.

Light bounced off the steel, bathing the Queen with a heavenly glow. Her gown was cloud gray, the royal color of mourning in Galland. It gave her pale skin a moonlit pallor. A red jewel hung from her neck, a ruby bright as new fire. As she looked over her knights, her piercing blue gaze snagged on Andry, and she held his stare for a long moment.

Despite the summer heat, Andry felt a cold finger trail down his spine. He dipped his head again, until all he could see were his own feet and the grass between them. The blades rippled like the sea. Andry pictured his mother on a ship, her face turned southeast.

We will go to my mother’s family. There is a ship from Ascal to Nkonabo. She’ll be safe with Kin Kiane, and from there I can return north.

Andry Trelland had ridden to Iona before, and he remembered the way to the immortal city.Up the river, past granite cliffs and the yew forest, deep in the glen.He swallowed, terrified of what must be done. To leave his mother, ill and alone, while he returned to the place that doomed the rest? It felt like the height of stupidity.

But what else can I do?he thought, his stomach twisting.

I can tell the Elders what befell us in the hills, what comes from the temple. Certainly they will defend what Erida will not.

And they will know what to do with the Spindleblade.

The service began, but Andry heard little of it. The whispers rose once more, too familiar, his only constant since the slaughter at the temple. In spite of himself, he watched Erida again. The whispers sharpened.

Say nothing; keep your distance,they said, howling with too many voices, all brittle as ice.Shadow the sword; hide its brilliance.

The summer wind blew cold, catching the flags of Galland. The Lion seemed to leap in the sky. At the pavilion, the Queen and her ladies clutched at their gowns. Andry shivered down to his toes.