"If you are a king in your own land, Man, why do you kneel? And if you are not a king, why does your unbent back pray for your death?"
"I am Palicrovol," said the man. "I am one battle away from death or a throne. My enemy is Nasilee, who rules by right of blood in Burland."
Truth-without-Torture took the challenge of his words. "If he rules by right of blood, how do you dare oppose him? Answer truthfully, for your life is in your tongue."
"Because I am a good man," answered Palicrovol, "and Nasilee is one of those who rule by right of blood, but earn the hate of all good men. Still, I would not have rebelled if the gods had not chosen me."
"If the gods have chosen you, then why are you an exile here in Isle-Where-Winter-Is-But-One-Day-in-the-Mountains?"
Palicrovol leapt suddenly to his feet. For a moment the girl was afraid that he meant to harm her, and even more afraid that perhaps he meant to flee. But instead he flung out his arms and half-chanted the tale of the battle. In her language the words were clumsy, but she soon realized that the awkwardness was because he was translating from poetry. You know the poem. He told her that he stood on a hilltop late in the evening before the battle, the campfires of the largest armies ever brought to war in Burland spread out before him, and he saw that whether he won or lost, too many men would die. There would not be army enough left to defend the borders against the raiders from the inland mountains, or the coasts against the raiders from the sea. So he told his great general Zymas to break the army into pieces and send them into hiding before morning. Let all men think that Palicrovol is a coward, and then Palicrovol will come and win his battle when the cost is little and the prize is greater. In those days, Palicrovol was wise.
And she smiled at him, for he was a fit king.