" Can you second-guess this Shevraeth?” Branaric asked. “He seems to be driving us back into our hills--to what purpose? Why hasn’t he taken over any of our villages? He knows where they lie--and he has the forces. If he does that, traps or no traps, arrows or no arrows, we’re lost. We won’t be able to retake them.”
Khesot puffed again, watching smoke curl lazily toward the tent roof.
In my mind I saw, clearly, that straight-backed figure on the dapple-gray horse, his long black cloak slung back over the animal’s haunches, his plumed helm of command on his head. With either phenomenal courage or outright arrogance he had ignored the possibility of our arrows, the crowned sun stitched on his tunic gleaming in the noonday light as he directed the day’s battle.
“I do not know,” Khesot said slowly. “But judging from our constant retreats of the last week, I confess freely, I do not believe him to be stupid.”
I said, “I find it impossible to believe that a Court fop--really, Azmus reported gossip in Remalna claiming him to be the most brainless dandy of them all--could suddenly become so great a leader.”
Khesot tapped his pipe again. “Hard to say. Certainly Galdran’s famed army did poorly enough against us until he came. But maybe he has good captains, and unlike Debegri, he may listen to them. They cannot all be stupid,” Khesot said. “They’ve been guarding the coast and keeping peace in the cities all these years. It could also be they learned from those first weeks’ losses to us. They certainly respect us a deal more than they did at the outset.” He closed his eyes.
“Which is why I say we ought to attack them at their camp.” I jabbed a finger at the map. “There are too many of them to carry their own water. They’ll have to camp by a stream, right? Oh, I suppose it isn’t realistic, but how I love the image of us setting fire to their tents, and them swarming about like angry ants while we laugh our way back into the hills.”
Branaric’s ready grin lightened his somber expression. He started to say something, then was taken by a sudden, fierce yawn. Almost immediately my own mouth opened in a jaw-cracking yawn that made my eyes sting.
“We can discuss our alternatives with the riding leaders after we eat, if I may suggest, my lord, my lady,” Khesot said, looking anxiously from one of us to the other. “Let me send Saluen to the cook tent for something hot.”
Khesot rose and moved to the flap of the tent to look out. He made a sign to the young man standing guard under the rain canopy a short distance away. Saluen came, Khesot gave his order, and we all watched Saluen lope down the trail to the cook tent.
Khesot stayed on his feet, beckoning to my brother. With careful fingers I rolled up our map. I was peripherally aware of the other two talking in low voices, until Branaric confronted me with surprise and consternation plain on his face.
Branaric waited until I had stowed the map away, then he grabbed me in a sudden, fierce hug. “Next year,” he said in a husky voice. “Can’t make much of your Flower Day, but next year I promise you’ll have a Name Day celebration to be remembered forever--and it’ll be in the capital!”
“With us as winners, right?” I said, laughing. “It’s all right, Bran. I don’t think I’m ready for Flower Day yet, anyway. Maybe being so short has made me age slower, or something. I’ll be just as happy dancing with the children another year.”
Bran smiled back, then turned away and resumed his quiet conversation with Khesot. I listened for a moment to the murmur of their voices and looked at but didn’t really notice the steady rain, or the faintly glowing tents.
Instead my inner eye kept returning to the memory of our people running before a mass of orderly brown-and-green-clad soldiers, overseen by a straight figure in a black cloak riding back and forth along a high ridge. "

― Sherwood Smith , Crown Duel (Crown & Court, #1)