Wizard of the Grove by Tanya Huff

his eyes, “then darkness will not stop us.”

F IVE
    I t was raining the next morning when Rael came to his father’s tent. He stood for a moment and stared blindly at the wet canvas, letting the water cut channels into the red-brown mud that caked his armor. The lines etched into the pale skin about his mouth and the purple bruises beneath his eyes, eyes in which the green fires had all but died, bore eloquent testimony to the night’s work. He had never looked less like his mother.
    The Guard before the entrance saluted and stood aside but Glinna, standing guard within the canvas walls, could not be so easily passed. She folded her arms on her chest and blocked the way.
    â€œThe king finally sleeps. Anything you have to say can wait.”
    â€œI have news of the war.”
    â€œNo doubt,” she said dryly. “But I don’t care if the war is over, you may not wake him.”
    â€œThe war is over.”
    Her eyes widened. She looked down at the dried blood that stained his sword hilt, so thick in places that it filled the hollows in the ornate scrollwork, then she stepped aside.
    â€œDon’t allow him to become excited,” she cautioned as Rael passed. “If he opens the wound again . . .” Her words trailed off, but the meaning was clear.
    When Raen had left his bed and reopened the wound, it had infected, swelling and putrefying. From a serious although hardly fatal injury, it had grown to be dangerously life threatening. Glinna,however, refused to admit defeat, draining, cleaning, cauterizing, and pouring potion after potion down the king’s throat. Three times she forced Lord Death away, and in the end she won; the king lived. But under the scented smoke that eddied around the inner room, the smell of rot remained.
    â€œLess than a week,” thought Rael, looking down at his father, “how could he change so much in less than a week?”
    As the war had aged Rael, the wound had aged Raen. Flesh hung from his bones as if it belonged to another man, and the lines of his face were now furrows. Not even the most loving son could deny that the king had grown old.
    Rael dashed a tear away with an impatient hand.
You will not mourn him while he still lives,
he told himself fiercely.
He needs you to be strong.
He dragged a chair over to the bed and perched on its edge. “Father?” Reaching out a slender hand, he placed it gently on the sleeping man’s chest. The steady rise and fall seemed to reassure him. He sat quietly for a moment then called again.
    With a sound that was half question, half moan, the king woke, blinked, and focused slowly on Rael’s face.
    â€œFather, the war is over.”
    â€œYou have the battle commanders.” It wasn’t a question. Late in the night, Belkar had told him what Rael planned to do, indeed, was doing, for the prince had ordered the duke not to speak until he and the Elite were well on their way. “You did the right thing. The only thing. I wouldn’t have stopped you.” The boy had needed an outlet for his grief. The war had needed to be ended. That both had been accomplished at once, and with a plan only the prince commander himself could carry out, would further consolidate said commander’s position with the army. That said commander was his son, and the plan placed him in mortal danger, had given Raen a sleepless night. “Did they surrender?”
    â€œNot quite.” Rael leaned forward and propped a pillow behind his father’s head. “We torched their camp, destroyed half their army, and still had to knock a tent down on the commanders to get them to quit.”
    â€œPrisoners.”
    â€œBesides the seven commanders, about eight hundred; at least half of them wounded.”
    Raen brought up a skeletal hand to stroke his beard. “Hmmm, not many.” His eyes unfocused as he considered the best course of action. “The men are rabble without the