Eragos sat at a wooden table that was obviously designed for something other than entertaining the high-ups of Kenyon's leadership. With him there were three pieces of paper. The first, a map of the frontier defenses, had been here when he arrived. The second, a message from a scout, had passed into his hands along with the third sheet. A request for a meeting. Eragos studied the note again to make sure he had the measure of it. Most likely it had been measured four times over by the leadership of Kenyon. No telling what conclusions they'd already reached. Or what conclusions one was supposed to reach. It was all there. The sense of it didn't change from one read to another. He still didn't know what to make of it. Vargis apparently did not, either. Sitting tight-lipped and silent was the order of the day for him. Eragos didn't know why it was so important that he say something. But it was important. They had to reach a conclusion together, or they were lost.

( Maybe they already were. )

The mood could not have been more somber. Surrounded by the memory of the dead or wounded they'd passed on their way into the fort, neither of the White Riders was particularly cheerful or abrasive, as they might have been. It was easier for Eragos to dismiss the carnage than Vargis. Easier because the old man, for all his knowledge, had never seen war like this. Eragos grimaced sourly at the stained floor. His flambard was resting against the wall, but Eragos still had his falchion belted on. For many reasons. Not the least of which was Sarta's apparent lack of control. Since they'd come into the fort from that snowy field of death, with three of their own dead and two more wounded, Sarta had been in a rage. If there were ever a moment that the Kenyonites needed to make themselves scarce this was it. Sarta could not be dissuaded from the view that they'd been betrayed by disloyal elements in Kenyon's own government who wanted their vampire bitch-queen dead. Eragos had long given up trying to talk reason into the man. There was no use in it, and no profit besides.

( Vargis, on the other hand, had not learned. )

It was hardly reasonable to expect less, but Rayne had hoped that the very fact of their alliance with the Free Cities would prevent Kenyon from wasting the time that it took to give the White Riders a glorified tour of the outer defenses. There had been a night for the White Riders to rest and to regain their strength from their journey, and now they rode toward the western border. Her face remained still as she glanced to her side toward both Fearborne and Sarta in turn - a hard and expressionless alabaster visage. She could not fault them; if their positions were reversed, she was certain she'd wish for the same thing. But it was still an expenditure of time that she didn't desire to spend.

Typically Rayne would not have accompanied the party to Monchale, and certainly her knight had something in his mind to say to the contrary about her choice, but as of yet his discretion had held him silent. Graelin was out there, or close by, and she needed to speak with her brother. If they were to commit both the Contingent and the White Riders to this action, she wanted first to speak in private with him. He was Kenyon's finest warrior, the one who had kept Kenyon safe when it was still but a dream in this wild land, but his mind was not geared toward politics. She had the advantage of two emissaries from the Free Cities who did not seem particularly political-minded either - a relief in this adventure - but nothing was certain in politics, even with allies. A false move, a loss of too many White Riders, and it could be that Kenyon would find herself alone again, without any support whatsoever. Worse, they could make enemies of the Free Cities.

Rayne detested requesting the aid of her allies. But it was the most logical move.

Her eyes drifted back to the center of the road again. Her horse moved smoothly beneath her, and though the mare was not bred for war, she was keeping pace admirably with the war stallions on either flank. If her estimates were correct, they had only another hour of riding before they would reach Monchale's fortress. It couldn't go quickly enough. Time was eating holes in her patience.

"It's pointless ceremony."

"It isn't pointless," Eragos insisted. "We're here for a reason."

"Because you can't stop making moon eyes at that pretty slip of a Rider."

"If you don't still your tongue, I'm going to cut it out."

"I'd like to see you try."

"Would you both," a third voice chimed in. "Please shut up?"

( The fellow probably had a point. )