It depicted the aftermath of the Battle of Tarpolita far differently from the tapestries in Nodlon Castle. In the painting bodies covered the slope, while at the top young Marcus Drake stood leaning on the pole that bore his standard. He was realistically depicted as weary and wounded, and the sun cast a red glow over everything that simultaneously hid the real blood and made the whole image look blood-soaked. That same sun rose before me as I headed due east toward Blithe Ward, showing me fields and forests of blood. I was too preoccupied to recognize it for the omen it was. The landscape outside Nodlon was ripe and full with late-summer produce. Prior to Drake’s rule no one would have dared plant such huge fields with a single crop, fearing they’d be set alight as part of some military action. Now I saw at least one barley field stretch to the horizon. The horse Kay had provided was pure muscle and single-mindedness, bred and trained to carry messengers. I was heavier than she was used to, and my horsemanship was dire, but she had a strong sense of professionalism and didn’t let me slow her down.
