Behind Ollie and Isabell, Sir Beathan had stopped moving.
The young Templar stood with his sword half-raised and his sandy hair plastered to his forehead with sweat, staring up at the walls where the archers lay draped unconscious over their bows. His face was the color of old parchment, and his jaw worked beneath his lips as if he were chewing on something that tasted of ashes.
He'd watched Sir Ollie's prayer with uncertain eyes, telling himself that the words might have been nothing more than a local superstition or a soldier's prayer. Men in the marches prayed before battle all the time.
The fact that the wind had seemed to answer could have been a coincidence, or the Holy Lord of Light extending protection to the faithful, or any of a dozen explanations that didn't require him to confront the possibility that the flame-haired knight he'd been fighting alongside was something other than what he appeared.
