"Art hurt, sire?" Tedric asked anxiously as he and Sciro lifted Phagon to his feet. "Nay, my masters-at-arms," the monarch gasped, still panting for breath. "Bruised merely, and somewhat winded." He opened his visor to let more air in; then, as he regained control, he shook off the supporting hands and stood erect under his own power. "I fear me, Tedric, that you and that vixen daughter of mine were in some sense right. Methinks I may be--Oh, the veriest trifle!--out of condition. But the battle is almost over. Did any escape?" None had. "'Tis well. Tedric, I know not how to honor...." "Honor me no farther, sire, I beg. Hast honored me already far more than I deserved, or ever will.... Or, at least, at the moment ... there may be later, perhaps ... that is, a thing ..." he fell silent. "A thing?" Phagon grinned broadly. "I know not whether Rhoann will be overly pleased at being called so, but 'twill be borne in mind nonetheless. Now you, Sciro; Lord Sciro now and henceforth, and all your line. Lord of what I will not now say; but when we have taken Sarlo you and all others shall know." "My thanks, sire, and my obeisance," said Sciro. "Schillan, with me to my pavilion. I am weary and sore, and would fain rest." As the two Lords of the Realm, so lately commoners, strode away to do what had to be done: "Neither of us feels any nobler than ever, I know," Sciro said, "but in one way 'tis well--very well indeed." "The Lady Trycie, eh? The wind does set so, then, as I thought." "Aye. For long and long. It wondered me often, your choice of the Lady Rhoann over _her_. Howbeit, 'twill be a wondrous thing to be your brother-in-law as well as in arms." Tedric grinned companionably, but before he could reply they had to separate and go to work. The king did not rest long; the heralds called Tedric in before half his job was done. "What thinkst you, Tedric, should be next?" Phagon asked. "First punish Devoss, sire!" Tedric snarled. "Back-track them--storm High Pass if defended--raze half the steppes with sword and torch--drive them the full length of their country and into Northern Sound!" "Interesting, my impetuous youngblade, but not at all practical," Phagon countered. "Hast considered the matter of time--the avalanches of rocks doubtless set up and ready to sweep those narrow paths--what Taggad would be doing while we cavort through the wastelands?" Tedric deflated almost instantaneously. "Nay, sire," he admitted sheepishly. "I thought not of any such." "'Tis the trouble with you--you know not _how_ to think." Phagon was deadly serious now. "'Tis a hard thing to learn; impossible for many; but learn it you must if you end not as Hurlo ended. Also, take heed: disobey my orders but once, as Hurlo did, and you hang in chains from the highest battlement of your own Castle Middlemarch until your bones rot apart and drop into the lake."