The first of the wounded soldiers arrived at the Great Hall two hours after dawn. He wasn't badly wounded, and had clearly run from the field, as out of breath as he was.

But what shocked everyone in the room was what he announced as Sara guided him from the door to sit on a cot.

"Grand King Deandre is dead."

Several people gasped and Myri felt a hundred eyes on her and Anil, who stood beside her.

It was Anil who managed to ask, "Wildas?"

"Unhurt and deferring power to Second King Shelton," the man replied. "The battle was won."

"And Coulta?" Myri questioned.

"Also unhurt, but unconscious. They say he used a lot of magic and is going to be brought here." He ducked his head before adding, "I'm sorry, My Ladies. I shouldn't have made you ask. I should have known better."

"It's all right," Myri assured him. "You haven't had the easiest of days."

He bowed his head again. "Thank you."

When Coulta was carried in a short time later, Myri had him placed on a cot at the far end of the Hall, leaving the cots closer to the doors for the seriously wounded, who were starting to be brought in. She and Anil spent a moment making him comfortable; removing his sword belt and boots and stowing them under the cot.

"Why are the marks visible?" Anil asked quietly.

Myri shook her head. "I don't know. I would think it would be from using so much magic, but they were still hidden the last time he drained himself."

She reached out to brush his black hair from his face and her fingers touched his skin. The fact that she could just barely feel a fading taint of magic made her stop. She pressed her palm against his cheek and was amazed to realize that only a trace of the magic that had cursed him remained.

"What is it?" Anil questioned.

Myri glanced up at her and shook her head in disbelief. "His curse," she whispered. "It's broken."

"Does Wildas know?"

"I don't know, but I'm sure Shelton does and will tell him."

Anil nodded. "This is good, isn't it?"

Myri managed a smile. "I think so."

Wildas guessed there were around a thousand men and boys in rough green uniforms sitting under the guard of several hundred stoney-faced soldiers and Guardsmen. Regardless of how angry they were with the attack and the Grand King's death, they still only watched the prisoners with hands on swords, without speaking. They had been ordered not to kill, and they wouldn't unless they had to.

The prisoners were divided into several groups across the battlefield and weren't bound, merely sitting there voluntarily. Some held their heads in their hands, others stared off into the distance. Some were crying, but none were speaking. It was eery, seeing such a large group of people sitting in such utter silence.

Rohan was one of the guards, and saluted Shelton and Wildas when they approached the first group. "These are all the survivors. Some are wounded."

Shelton nodded and stepped forward. Wildas followed a step behind and watched the reactions of the prisoners. Some tried to bow from a seated position, while others just cowered like they expected swift execution.

Shelton seemed to pick a man at random and pointed down at him. "You. Explain yourself."

The gray-bearded man visibly shook when he saw the hand pointing at him. "I was forced to fight. This wasn't my choice! He forced us all!"

"How?"

The man held up one hand, showing a barely-healed scar across his right palm. "He took my home by force – Craywell. Every man was taken to the castle. He demanded fealty and I refused. So he dragged me to a huge vat on a burning fire. He held my hand over it and cut my palm so the blood fell into the vat. I have no other memory after that until I found myself fighting here. I swear!"

Shelton looked across the group in front of him. "Is this what happened to everyone?"

The air was filled with calls of agreement.

After the prisoners grew quiet Shelton asked, "Did anyone swear fealty voluntarily?"

"Some," a different man answered. "When he demanded it, he promised that those who served him willingly would become his closest advisers."

Wildas hoped that meant they were the ones Coulta had killed with Varin.

Shelton turned to Wildas and motioned for him to follow as he stepped away. Wildas did so until Shelton stopped far enough away for the prisoners not to hear them.

"What do you think we should do?" Shelton asked.

Wildas knew that Shelton was asking his opinion more to give him a lesson in decision-making than anything else. "We can't execute them if they were forced to do this."

Shelton nodded. "I agree. But what do we do with them?"

"Don't we need to find stewards for the cities Varin controlled? We could allow them to go home with the stewards. I don't think they're a threat at all, but each steward is going to be escorted by Guardsmen as it is."

Shelton gave him a hint of a smile. "You're better at this than you think you are. What about for tonight?"

Wildas considered that for a moment before answering. "We let them divide into groups based on city, and give them what provisions we can spare. Even if everyone understands that these men were controlled by Varin, there will still be problems if they are allowed into the city. Only the ones wounded badly enough to need a healer should be allowed inside. We can have healing supplies sent out for the wounded who aren't in danger of death or illness."

The look Shelton gave him was the same fond look the sorcerer had given him in the past; while Deandre had never been very forthcoming with praise, Shelton had always been.

"You're going to be a fine king."

Wildas drew a deep breath. "I hope so."

Anil was amazed by how quickly the Great Hall filled with wounded soldiers. The healers were efficient, though, and moved the patients to specific areas of the Hall based on the seriousness of their injuries. Anil found herself helping to supply water and bandages to whatever healer called for them.

The room smelled of filth and blood and the floor was spotted with it. Some wounds went beyond the skills of the healers by the time the patient arrived, and a few bodies were tucked along the walls. Other wounds had resulted in the loss of limbs, which were resting neatly near the bodies.

The whole scene was beginning to make her ill.

Everything came to a sudden stand-still when a group of men in green uniforms dragged each other through the door. Anil knew that none of Ryal's defenders wore green, and she immediately understood why several people were loudly objecting.

Then Prince-General Rohan eased past the new arrivals. He looked tired and was more ragged than usual. He had a scabbed cut on his cheek and his filthy red uniform was ripped in places. With one hand on his sword hilt he stood just inside the Hall and addressed them, "You will tend to these wounded men. This is a direct command from Second King Shelton and Crown Prince Wildas. If you refuse it will be their judgment you will face, not mine. These men are citizens of Phelin as much as you are, and were forced to serve Varin against their will through the use of powerful controlling magic. Any soldier here who defended Ryal saw how these men fought, and knows these men were not in command of their own minds or bodies."

"He's right!" a Guardsman from a nearby cot called out. Despite a heavily bandaged arm, he sat up on his cot and added, "Those men had the look of something possessed. If they were wounded they continued to fight without faltering, unless they were cut through the heart or their heads removed. That could only be the work of evil magic."

Several other men added their own agreements to their comrade's statement.

Rohan nodded to them. "As I said, we all know these men were under a control not their own."

"They will be tended to," the healer in charge declared, stepping forward. "All of them. They will be treated with kindness and respect."

"Thank you."

They'd barely gotten the new arrivals sorted to cots when a boy Anil recognized as one from the stables entered the Great Hall and came right up to her.

"My Lady, some of the soldiers are killing horses that aren't even badly wounded," he told her, out of breath. "We need you to help us. Especially in saving your husband's stallion, Quiver. The soldiers were warned by the Crown Prince not to kill him, but we can't catch him. If we can't, the soldiers will eventually kill him anyway, because he'll get himself injured running from us."

Anil didn't even consider staying with the healers while horses were being killed. She went to Myri, who was bandaging a soldier's leg, and told her, "I'm going to help with the horses."

Myri nodded. "One less set of hands won't matter right now, unless you were a trained healer."

"If I was, I'd stay."

"I know. Go help where you can. Those horses are important to their riders."

Anil had known immediately what to do for Quiver. Picking up a clean cloth, she went to Coulta and knelt beside him. She gently ran the cloth over Coulta's face and neck, trying to pick up as much of his personal scent as she could.

Much to her surprise, his eyes fluttered open. There was no pain in those black-and-silver eyes, only a confusion that vanished as his lids became heavy again. She leaned close enough to kiss his forehead.

"Wildas is safe," she murmured. "We all are. Rest for now."

She didn't know if he heard her, but he was asleep again when she leaned away.

Knowing a battle had raged outside the city and seeing the wounded soldiers had not prepared her for what she saw when she left the city gates. The usual green field was littered with discarded weapons and armor, blood, and the bodies of the dead. Guardsmen were moving among the dead, attempting to identify each soldier, she guessed. One of the Guardsmen did have a parchment and quill. She watched as another man held out a bottle for him to dip the quill in before he wrote something and they moved on.

At the far edge of the field she saw several people standing around what she thought must be a body, though it was hard to see. She knew it had to be the dead king, that they were too busy trying to settle the conflict for arrangements yet to be made for his body. It seemed perfectly symbolic to have him watched over by people who had been close to him in life.

Scattered throughout the field were what looked like small camps being built by soldiers in green. Varin's soldiers. They must be awaiting some sort of judgment. But among those camps and the dead were horses. Some were laying dead or close to it, while others were wounded but not too badly to run.

The horses were upset by the blood, despite their training. None of these horses had seen battle before, and training could only desensitize an animal so much. The rest was learned through experience.

She held her simple green dress above the trampled ground as she looked for Quiver. He was her first priority before she even considered taking care of the other horses.

She finally found him, standing with his ears pinned, reins trailing on the ground, muscles ready to run. He was staring at the three soldiers who were grumbling amongst themselves. Two of them held bows and one had an arrow already on the string, though he held the bow down.

"We can't catch it," he was arguing. "It's useless, then. I say we just kill it. That leg is bleeding anyway. No one will know we killed it."

Another man nodded. "I suppose you're right. Just shoot him. Prince-General Rohan won't know."

Anil marched up to them, the cloth she'd used on Coulta bunched up in one hand. "He most certainly will know!" she warned loudly.

They all turned and the archer lowered his bow again. All three men gaped at her.

"If you shoot that horse, you might as well shoot me, and I doubt you will." She paid them no more heed as she moved past them and slowly approached Quiver. The black stallion snorted and stepped back.

"I know," she said in a soothing voice. "You're confused." She unbunched the cloth and held it out to him. "You're all right," she continued to soothe, not moving. Eventually, the stallion got a whiff of the scent on the cloth and one ear flicked forward.

"Good boy," she murmured.

"I wouldn't get closer to him," one of the men warned. "My Lady, he's unpredictable."

Anil ignored the man and kept her focus on the stallion. If she didn't, she'd make a rude comment she'd regret later.

It took several long minutes, but she was eventually able to touch the stallion's neck. He flinched, but didn't respond otherwise. So, gripping the reins, she began to lead him back to the stables.