left Atland garrison, riding beside his brothers Brand and Amanander at the
head of the weary army. Reginald, as the commander of the garrison, stayed behind, charged with overseeing that the terms
of the peace were honored. Roderic was only too glad to turn his back on Atland at last.
He preferred not to think about that terrible day when he had forced Ebram-taw to accept his offer of peace. The knowledge
that he was capable of such cruelty was a greater burden than any other he contemplated on that long ride across the stark
landscape.
He was silent and listless for the most part on the journey across the Pulatchian Mountains. He avoided Amanander’s company
altogether; there was something in Amanander’s expression when their eyes met which reminded Roderic of the bloodlust he had
felt when he had ordered the soldiers to do their terrible work. He knew that Brand watched him with concern. But he did not
want to know what his brothers thought of him, and in his worst moments, he wondered what the people who had known him all
of his life would think of him: his tutor, Garrick, who had taught him that honor was at least as important as strategy; Brand’s
wife, Jaboa, who had taught him that the weaker were to be treated with compassion, who had treated him like a son. He wondered
what the scullions and stable boys would think, the ones who had been the playmates of his youth, from whom he had learned
that birth is not the measure of a man’s worth. And he wondered what Phineas would say.
Phineas—old and blind and lamed, who nonetheless was first among all his father’s advisors, the one voice Abelard listened
to before and after all the others, whom Abelard trusted as he trusted no one else. It had been thus for as long as Roderic
could remember. Phineas never hesitated to say what he really thought. Phineas wasn’t afraid of Abelard’s wrath. What would
he say to Abelard’s heir, who had brought peace at the price of slaughter? What kind of prince—what kind of king—could he
be?
And then there was Peregrine. He began to think of her more and more as the distance from Ahga gradually shortened. He remembered
the first day she had caught his eye. He had championed one of the weakest of the scullions against the others, and he remembered
the admiration he had seen in her eyes. But what would she think about this? He could imagine the disgust darkening her brown
eyes, her full lips pursed in disdain. What sort of man would she think he was?
Once across the Pulatchians, riding almost due north, they followed the course of what had once been a mighty river, but now
was nothing more than a trickle in the center of a deep gorge. The weather held clear, the spring promised to be mild, but
nothing could lift the weight which seemed to hang like a brick around his neck. The villages they passed through were few,
comprised only of a few rude shacks built by baked earth, with roofs of ancient metal, scoured bare by the ever whining wind.
Roderic remembered that his history tutor had taught him that before the Armageddon—before the Magic-users of Old Meriga had
discovered the Magic and nearly destroyed everything in their attempts to make it work—once the Arkan Plains were vast fields,
where wheat and corn grew from horizon to horizon in all directions, and the whole world fed on the bread of Meriga. Roderic
found that hard to believe. The land which lay around him, stretching on for miles, was a wasteland of stunted, wind-whipped
trees, the earth itself worn down in many places to polished bedrock. Beside the ancient highways, twisted pieces of corroding
metal lay like skeletons along the road. Roderic shuddered at the ruin. How could the men of Old Meriga have allowed such
a terrible thing as the Magic to be used? Had they no idea of the cost?
In the villages, ragged children stood in doorways, with dirty fingers in mouths full of rotted teeth. At the first such
head of the weary army. Reginald, as the commander of the garrison, stayed behind, charged with overseeing that the terms
of the peace were honored. Roderic was only too glad to turn his back on Atland at last.
He preferred not to think about that terrible day when he had forced Ebram-taw to accept his offer of peace. The knowledge
that he was capable of such cruelty was a greater burden than any other he contemplated on that long ride across the stark
landscape.
He was silent and listless for the most part on the journey across the Pulatchian Mountains. He avoided Amanander’s company
altogether; there was something in Amanander’s expression when their eyes met which reminded Roderic of the bloodlust he had
felt when he had ordered the soldiers to do their terrible work. He knew that Brand watched him with concern. But he did not
want to know what his brothers thought of him, and in his worst moments, he wondered what the people who had known him all
of his life would think of him: his tutor, Garrick, who had taught him that honor was at least as important as strategy; Brand’s
wife, Jaboa, who had taught him that the weaker were to be treated with compassion, who had treated him like a son. He wondered
what the scullions and stable boys would think, the ones who had been the playmates of his youth, from whom he had learned
that birth is not the measure of a man’s worth. And he wondered what Phineas would say.
Phineas—old and blind and lamed, who nonetheless was first among all his father’s advisors, the one voice Abelard listened
to before and after all the others, whom Abelard trusted as he trusted no one else. It had been thus for as long as Roderic
could remember. Phineas never hesitated to say what he really thought. Phineas wasn’t afraid of Abelard’s wrath. What would
he say to Abelard’s heir, who had brought peace at the price of slaughter? What kind of prince—what kind of king—could he
be?
And then there was Peregrine. He began to think of her more and more as the distance from Ahga gradually shortened. He remembered
the first day she had caught his eye. He had championed one of the weakest of the scullions against the others, and he remembered
the admiration he had seen in her eyes. But what would she think about this? He could imagine the disgust darkening her brown
eyes, her full lips pursed in disdain. What sort of man would she think he was?
Once across the Pulatchians, riding almost due north, they followed the course of what had once been a mighty river, but now
was nothing more than a trickle in the center of a deep gorge. The weather held clear, the spring promised to be mild, but
nothing could lift the weight which seemed to hang like a brick around his neck. The villages they passed through were few,
comprised only of a few rude shacks built by baked earth, with roofs of ancient metal, scoured bare by the ever whining wind.
Roderic remembered that his history tutor had taught him that before the Armageddon—before the Magic-users of Old Meriga had
discovered the Magic and nearly destroyed everything in their attempts to make it work—once the Arkan Plains were vast fields,
where wheat and corn grew from horizon to horizon in all directions, and the whole world fed on the bread of Meriga. Roderic
found that hard to believe. The land which lay around him, stretching on for miles, was a wasteland of stunted, wind-whipped
trees, the earth itself worn down in many places to polished bedrock. Beside the ancient highways, twisted pieces of corroding
metal lay like skeletons along the road. Roderic shuddered at the ruin. How could the men of Old Meriga have allowed such
a terrible thing as the Magic to be used? Had they no idea of the cost?
In the villages, ragged children stood in doorways, with dirty fingers in mouths full of rotted teeth. At the first such
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