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Three hours after he entered the Dedicates' Keep； he finished the deed。 It was inevitable that some of the Dedicates woke and fought him。 It was inevitable that some women he killed were beautiful； and some men were young and should have had full lives before them。 It was inevitable that no matter how hard he tried to block the memories of their faces from his mind； moments would e that he knew he'd never forget： a blind woman clutching at his surcoat； begging him to wait； the smile of a drinking panion from the hunts； Captain Derrow； who bid him a final goodbye with a knowing wink。
Halfway through the deed； Borenson recognized that this was wanted of him； that Raj Ahten had left the Dedicates unguarded knowing they would be killed。 He had no passion for these people； valued them not at all。
Let friend dispose of friend； brother raise knife against brother。 Let the nations of the North be torn asunder。 That was what Raj Ahten wanted； and Borenson knew that even as he slaughtered these innocents； he had bee a tool in Raj Ahten's hand。
Leaving the Dedicates totally unguarded was not necessary。 Four or five good men could have provided some protection。 Could the monster take such delight in this？
Borenson felt his mind tear open like a seeping wound； every moment became a pain。 Yet it was his duty to obey his lord without question。 His duty to kill these people； and even as he revolted at the slaughter； he found himself wondering time and time again； Have I killed them all？ Have I fulfilled my duty？ Is this all； or has Raj Ahten hidden some of them？
For if he could not reach the vectors that Raj Ahten had taken； Borenson needed to kill every Dedicate who fed Raj Ahten's power。
Thus； when he finally unlocked the portcullis to the keep； blood covered Borenson from helm to boot。
He walked into Market Street； dropped his knives to the pavement； then stood for a long time； letting rain wash over his face； letting it wash over his hands。 The coldness of it felt good； but during the past hours the blood had clotted in gobbets。 A little rainwater would not wash it free。
A fey mood took Borenson。 He no longer wanted to be a soldier for Orden； or for any king。 His helm felt too constraining； as if it would crush his head； it hurt so。 He threw it to the ground so that it rattled and clattered as it rolled along the paving stones； down the street。
Then he walked out of Castle Sylvarresta。
No one stopped him。 Only a pitiful guard had been set。
When he reached the city gate； the young fellow on guard took one look at his blood…covered face and fell back； crying； raising his index finger and the thumb as a ward against ghosts。
Borenson shouted a cry that rang from the walls； then ran out into the rain； across the burned fields toward the distant copse where he'd hidden his horse。
In the darkness and rain； a half…dozen nomen with long spears made the mistake of jumping him。 They came rushing toward him in a little vale； leaping from the blackened earth like wild things； running forward with their longspears。
Their red eyes nearly glowed in the darkness； and their thick manes made them look somehow wolfish。 They snarled and loped forward on short legs； sometimes putting a knuckle to the ground。
For a moment； Borenson considered letting them kill him。
But instantly an image of Myrrima formed in his mind： her silk dress the color of clouds； the mother…of…pearl bs in her dark hair。 He recalled the smell of her； the sound of her laugh when he'd kissed her roughly outside her little cottage。
He needed her now； and saw the nomen as mere extensions of Raj Ahten。 They were his agents。 He'd brought them here to kill； and though Borenson's men had driven and scattered the nomen through the hills； they would bee a scourge on this land for months。
It did not matter to Raj Ahten。 The nomen would do his will as they sought to feed on human flesh。 They would do all the killing he'd asked； but they'd take the weak firstthe children from cradles； the women at their wash。
The first noman rushed Borenson； hurled its spear at close range； so that the stone blade shattered against Borenson's mail。
Quick as a snake； Borenson drew the battle…axe at his hip； began swinging。
He was a force warrior to be reckoned with。 He cleaved the arm off one noman； spun and hit another full in the chest。
He began smiling as he did so； considered each move in the battle。 It was not enough to kill the nomen； he wanted to do it well； to turn the battle into a dance； a work of art。 When one noman rushed him； Borenson slammed his left mailed fist into its fangs； then grabbed its tongue and pulled。
Another tried to run。 Borenson gauged its pace； watched the bobbing of its upright ears； and threw his axe with all his might。 It was not enough to split the beast's skull； he wanted to do it perfectly； to hit the target just so； so the bone would make that splitting noise and part like a melon。
The noman went down。 Only two stood； rushing him as a pair； spears ready。 Without his endowments of sight； Borenson would never have been able to evade those black spears。
As the nomen lunged； Borenson simply slapped the speartips away； so the jabs went wide； then he grabbed a spear； launched himself forward and spun； impaling both beasts through the navel。
Both nomen stood in shock； pinned together。
When he finished； Borenson stepped back and observed the nomen。 They knew they would die。 They couldn't heal from such a wound。 The creature in back fainted； dragging its panion to its knees。
Borenson walked on； considered the way he'd fought； the precise movements。 His deed had been as close to poetry or dance as he could achieve。
He began laughing； chuckling a throaty rumble； for this was the way war should have beenmen fighting for their lives。 A good man struggling to protect home and family。
The skirmish itself somehow seemed more a balm for his troubles than the rain。 Borenson retrieved his axe and helm and hurried to his horse； running through the downpour。
I will not wash these hands； he told himself。 I will not wash my face； until I stand before my prince and my king again； so they can see what they have done。
Thus Borenson took horse and began racing through the darkness。 Four miles down the road east of town； he found a dead knight of Orden； took the man's lance。
His mount could not equal Gaborn's fine hunter。 But the road was clear； if somewhat muddy； and on a night like this； with rain to cool them； Borenson's horse could run forever。
So Borenson raced over the hills until the rain stopped and the clouds dispelled and stars shone bright and clean。
He'd planned to head to Longmont。 But when the road branched both east and south； the fey mood was still on him； and he suddenly turned east； toward Bannisferre。
Dawn found him riding over green fields that held no sign of war； through vineyards twenty miles north of Bannisferre where young women stooped to fill baskets of ripe grapes。
He stopped in such a field and ate； found the grapes dripping with water from the night's rain； they tasted as succulent as the first grape must have tasted to the first man who ate it。
The river here was wide； a broad silver ribbon gleaming beneath the green fields。 Borenson had thought last night to leave himself bloody； but now he did not want Myrrima to see him this way； to ever guess what he'd done。
He went down to the river and swam； naked； unmindful of the pig farmers who herded animals past on the road。
When the sun dried him； Borenson put on his armor； but threw his bloodied surcoat into the water； letting the river carry away the image of the green knight on the blue field。
Surely； he thought； Raj Ahten's troops have reached Longmont。 I'm so far behind them； I'm too late to join the battle。 In truth； he no longer cared。 No matter what the oute at Longmont； he planned to renounce his lord。
In assassinating innocent Dedicates； men and women who had mitted no crime but that of loving a good and decent king； Borenson had done more than any master had a right to ask。 So now he'd renounce his vows to Orden； bee a Knight Equitable。 Of his own free will he'd fight as he deemed best。
Borenson went on to a pear tree beside an abandoned farm； and climbed； taking the fattest pears from the topsame for himself； some for Myrrima and her family。
From the treetop he saw something interesting： over a rise lay deep pools with steep sides beneath a grove of willow trees； pools as blue as the sky。 Yellow willow leaves had fallen into water in great drifts； floating over the surface。 But also on the pools were roses bobbing； red and white。
A wizard lives there； Borenson realized； dully。 A water wizard； and people have thrown roses into the water； seeking its blessings。
He climbed quickly down from the tree； ran over the rise to the still waters； and approached solemnly； hopefully。 He had no roses or flowers to sweeten the wizard's water； but he had pears that it might eat。
So he went to the edge of the pool； where the willow roots twisted down a gravel bank； and there he sat on a broad black root。 The crisp leaves of the trees above him blew in a small breeze； rustling； and Borenson called for long minut