Book 2 of The Wardstane Chronicles. Scotland, 1298. Stirling taught the thing under the western howe that the boy cannot be taken and the method cannot be priced, and so it changed its axioms. It has stopped delegating. Its own hand enters the war now, patient and personal, and it begins, on the first night of the new year, with a gift: it offers Tam back his dead mother's face, held whole by the drowned and burned of Berwick, freely, costing nothing, a love that would feel like nothing but love and pull like a leash whenever the war required it. Tam is fifteen, and cannot take the gift and cannot quite refuse it, and must carry it through a year of famine, invasion, and the greatest muster England has ever sent north. As the order of five goes looking for the rest of itself, gathering the hidden Wardens the enemy found first, the war moves toward Falkirk, where, on the twenty-second of July, on the greatest harvest of the dead the war will ever yield, the crownless king means at last to be crowned by the despairing dead of the field, and end nine hundred years of refusal. Every recorded event of that terrible day happens exactly as history wrote it: the standing schiltrons, the fled cavalry, the arrow-storm, the slaughter, the resignation of Wallace. And on the same ground, in the same night, a boy who has learned that the dead have no nation walks alone into the enemy's crowning to remind thousands of forgotten men that they are not forsaken, and that they may still choose. The day was lost, and the dead were not.
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