(no subject)
[Before: a grave.]
They make camp early, less than a mile from the battleground.
It's not Lan's choice. It's not what he would do. In war, he told Moiraine once a long time ago, you say a prayer for your dead, and you ride on. They could cover miles more tonight.
But he doesn't say a word against it, either. Old Javier Busun is the one to halt first, and cast Lan a glance that's half imploring and half defiant. Lan meets his eyes, and then swings down from Mandarb's saddle in silence. If anyone has the right to choose this camp it's Javier; the bones of his father and three brothers lie scattered there. And Lan is not leading this army -- not to choose, and not to gainsay.
There's no storytelling around the oil stoves that night. Even the whispered conversations are few. Every man and woman here has relatives in that hollow. There's no question of burial, of course. Even if they could dig so large a grave in this rock, there's no time for it. These men went to the mother's embrace and rebirth long ago. All that's left to give them is the funeral prayer, murmured privately by hundreds of throats, and a few precious drops of water for the thirsty earth of their graves.
Lan eats his dry trail rations without speaking, and drinks sparingly, and cares for his horse alone. He's never been a man to mind silence, and tonight, there's nothing to say.
He takes first watch at sundown. He stays awake most of the night, sitting crosslegged with his sword across his knees, looking out across the motionless shadows of shattered rock. In his Warder's cloak, he blends into the stones and darkness. invisible even to his friends.
Dawn breaks hot and dry and lifeless in the Blasted Lands. The sun's rays are bleached to a harsh white, and there's no comfort in the rising sun.
Lan slept little, but he unrolls himself from his bedroll at the first light in the sky. Others are doing the same -- some of their own volition, some shaken awake by neighbors. Their barren hilltop rustles with the sounds of a surreptitious army rising for the day.
Lan stows his blanket behind Mandarb's saddle, and breaks his fast with trail bread and water. Not much; they'll all eat as they ride. He rubs a resigned hand across his jaw, feeling the stubble that's accumulated. Normally Lan is a punctilious shaver, but there's no water to spare for such habits here.
A shadow falls across his hands as he's tightening Mandarb's girth. Lan looks up without surprise to see Usar Marenellin. Ranged behind him are Marisor Ernal, Varia Merillan, and Neril Gerellin; a dozen others are lurking in the background, trying to look as if they're not listening.
"Lan." Usar Marenellin has his uncle Bukama's trick of seeming to see king and man at once; they've known each other since they were tangle-haired boys. His face, now, is seamed and grim. Lan buckles the girth, lets his hands fall, and waits.
"We've spoken. Many of us." This hesistance is uncharacteristic from Usar, but it's echoed in all the others' posture. Varia stares defiantly at him; Neril fidgets with his hilt; Marisor's gaze flicks restlessly from one person to the next. "Lan, we -- look, man, I know your reasons. And they're good. But we're in the Blasted Lands now, and the mother will embrace us all soon enough. None will join us now that hasn't already. Malkier rides."
Usar pauses, as if to let Lan answer that, but Lan doesn't. Only watches him, and waits. Varia seems about to say something, but she stifles herself with visible effort. It's Marisor who steps in, quiet lugubrious Marisor with a rare intensity glittering in his eyes. "Let us be the Golden Crane, my lord," he says. Barely above a whisper, but it's a fierce plea. "This is Malkier's last ride, Malkier's last lances. We go to Tarmon Gai'don. Let the Golden Crane strike at the Shadow."
There are no whispers. Everyone in hearing distance is hushed, silent and straining their ears.
"Lead us," says Usar, low, for Lan's ears alone. "Be what you will, but give the men that. It will give them heart."
And you also, old friend, Lan thinks, looking at him.
Usar's uncle -- one of the five men who were the nearest Lan had to fathers -- died for a dream that could never be achieved. Died for the ambition of others, and the impossible hope of Malkier risen from its ashes. But Usar is right, too: no one will follow them here. No more lances will ride to this banner. The last of Malkier will die at the Last Battle, win or lose.
The silence stretches, under the burning sun of this poisoned wasteland.
Lan, at last, touches fingertips to sword hilt, and then to his heart. The gesture is common across the Borderlands: honor to serve.
"I am a man among you," he answers, and whispers pass his words on. "As I ever have been."
"But what remains of Malkier's strength is here, in you who remember her. If you would be the Golden Crane in honor and memory, I will not gainsay you. If you would have a war leader for the Crane's last flight, so be it. We will die as we have lived, a sword aimed at the Dark One."
He looks around them: his army, unwanted and loved. "Tai'shar Malkier," he says to all of them. "Tai'shar Malkier," and five hundred voices shout the words back, for him and for all of them.
When they ride out, an hour later, a flag's weathered pole is lashed to Usar Marenellin's lance, and the tattered rag of the heir's flag streams behind his saddle.
Lan is the only person in the army who doesn't watch it.
They make camp early, less than a mile from the battleground.
It's not Lan's choice. It's not what he would do. In war, he told Moiraine once a long time ago, you say a prayer for your dead, and you ride on. They could cover miles more tonight.
But he doesn't say a word against it, either. Old Javier Busun is the one to halt first, and cast Lan a glance that's half imploring and half defiant. Lan meets his eyes, and then swings down from Mandarb's saddle in silence. If anyone has the right to choose this camp it's Javier; the bones of his father and three brothers lie scattered there. And Lan is not leading this army -- not to choose, and not to gainsay.
There's no storytelling around the oil stoves that night. Even the whispered conversations are few. Every man and woman here has relatives in that hollow. There's no question of burial, of course. Even if they could dig so large a grave in this rock, there's no time for it. These men went to the mother's embrace and rebirth long ago. All that's left to give them is the funeral prayer, murmured privately by hundreds of throats, and a few precious drops of water for the thirsty earth of their graves.
Lan eats his dry trail rations without speaking, and drinks sparingly, and cares for his horse alone. He's never been a man to mind silence, and tonight, there's nothing to say.
He takes first watch at sundown. He stays awake most of the night, sitting crosslegged with his sword across his knees, looking out across the motionless shadows of shattered rock. In his Warder's cloak, he blends into the stones and darkness. invisible even to his friends.
Dawn breaks hot and dry and lifeless in the Blasted Lands. The sun's rays are bleached to a harsh white, and there's no comfort in the rising sun.
Lan slept little, but he unrolls himself from his bedroll at the first light in the sky. Others are doing the same -- some of their own volition, some shaken awake by neighbors. Their barren hilltop rustles with the sounds of a surreptitious army rising for the day.
Lan stows his blanket behind Mandarb's saddle, and breaks his fast with trail bread and water. Not much; they'll all eat as they ride. He rubs a resigned hand across his jaw, feeling the stubble that's accumulated. Normally Lan is a punctilious shaver, but there's no water to spare for such habits here.
A shadow falls across his hands as he's tightening Mandarb's girth. Lan looks up without surprise to see Usar Marenellin. Ranged behind him are Marisor Ernal, Varia Merillan, and Neril Gerellin; a dozen others are lurking in the background, trying to look as if they're not listening.
"Lan." Usar Marenellin has his uncle Bukama's trick of seeming to see king and man at once; they've known each other since they were tangle-haired boys. His face, now, is seamed and grim. Lan buckles the girth, lets his hands fall, and waits.
"We've spoken. Many of us." This hesistance is uncharacteristic from Usar, but it's echoed in all the others' posture. Varia stares defiantly at him; Neril fidgets with his hilt; Marisor's gaze flicks restlessly from one person to the next. "Lan, we -- look, man, I know your reasons. And they're good. But we're in the Blasted Lands now, and the mother will embrace us all soon enough. None will join us now that hasn't already. Malkier rides."
Usar pauses, as if to let Lan answer that, but Lan doesn't. Only watches him, and waits. Varia seems about to say something, but she stifles herself with visible effort. It's Marisor who steps in, quiet lugubrious Marisor with a rare intensity glittering in his eyes. "Let us be the Golden Crane, my lord," he says. Barely above a whisper, but it's a fierce plea. "This is Malkier's last ride, Malkier's last lances. We go to Tarmon Gai'don. Let the Golden Crane strike at the Shadow."
There are no whispers. Everyone in hearing distance is hushed, silent and straining their ears.
"Lead us," says Usar, low, for Lan's ears alone. "Be what you will, but give the men that. It will give them heart."
And you also, old friend, Lan thinks, looking at him.
Usar's uncle -- one of the five men who were the nearest Lan had to fathers -- died for a dream that could never be achieved. Died for the ambition of others, and the impossible hope of Malkier risen from its ashes. But Usar is right, too: no one will follow them here. No more lances will ride to this banner. The last of Malkier will die at the Last Battle, win or lose.
The silence stretches, under the burning sun of this poisoned wasteland.
Lan, at last, touches fingertips to sword hilt, and then to his heart. The gesture is common across the Borderlands: honor to serve.
"I am a man among you," he answers, and whispers pass his words on. "As I ever have been."
"But what remains of Malkier's strength is here, in you who remember her. If you would be the Golden Crane in honor and memory, I will not gainsay you. If you would have a war leader for the Crane's last flight, so be it. We will die as we have lived, a sword aimed at the Dark One."
He looks around them: his army, unwanted and loved. "Tai'shar Malkier," he says to all of them. "Tai'shar Malkier," and five hundred voices shout the words back, for him and for all of them.
When they ride out, an hour later, a flag's weathered pole is lashed to Usar Marenellin's lance, and the tattered rag of the heir's flag streams behind his saddle.
Lan is the only person in the army who doesn't watch it.