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  She recognized that expression: she had seen it on occasion in her tent. Indeed, she had seen it this very night.

  Renarr unclasped her cloak and folded it carefully against the back of a chair. Then she walked over to a side table. ‘The last wine I had this evening,’ she said, taking up a decanter and sniffing at the mouth, ‘was sour.’ She poured herself a glass. ‘Father,’ she said, turning to face him, ‘I have so many things to say to you.’

  He would not meet her gaze, intent instead on a scroll laid out before him. ‘It’s rather late for a conversation,’ he said.

  ‘If you mean the time of night, then, yes, perhaps.’

  ‘I did not mean the time of night.’

  ‘Oh, that bulwark,’ she said, sighing. ‘I know why you threw it up, of course. Your love for my mother, and what did I do? I went into the camps, into the taverns, to learn a trade. Was I punishing you? Perhaps I was simply bored. Or at that age where rebellion seems a good idea, an idea full of … ideals. So many of us, at around my age, will flare bright, with the vague, despondent understanding that it will all fade. Our fire. Our nerve. The belief that it all means something.’

  He studied her at last, with the heaped desk between them.

  ‘Osserc is out there,’ Renarr continued, ‘flaring bright. Somewhere. Me, I didn’t walk that far.’

  ‘Then, Renarr, is your … rebellion … at an end?’

  Was that hope she saw in his eyes? She couldn’t be sure. ‘Father, I can’t give you my reasons. But I know what my choices yielded, beyond this much-used body. My mother was an officer in your company. I was her daughter, held apart from her beloved legion. So, I knew nothing of it, nothing of a soldier’s ways, nothing of my mother’s ways.’ She sipped the wine. ‘What she did to me, and what you did to Osserc … well, of your children, one of us at last understands your reasons.’

  She did not think there was enough in her words to make his eyes glisten, and the sudden emotion, so exposed and raw in Urusander, shocked her.

  Looking away, Renarr set down the goblet. ‘A young soldier of the Legion came to me tonight. He came, not for my cheap gifts of love, but to confess his crimes. Slaughter of innocents. Terrible rapes. A mother, her young boys. He named the squads and the company. Then he stood before me, and cut his own throat.’

  Urusander rose from behind the desk. Then he was directly before her. He moved as if to reach out, to take her into something like an embrace, but something held him back.

  ‘Father,’ she said, ‘you have troubled children.’

  ‘I will make amends, Renarr. I promise you. I will make amends!’

  She would not yield her heart to him, lest it sting with pity. In any case, such feelings within her had sunk into the depths. She did not think she would see them again. ‘Your High Priestess, Father, needs to understand – her temple, the faith she offers, it needs to be more than it is. Speak to her, Father, speak to her of hope. It’s not all there simply to serve her. She needs to give something back.’

  She stepped away, retrieving her goblet. She drained it, and then went to her cloak. ‘My bed is not the place for confessions, especially the bloody kind. As for absolution,’ she turned and offered him a faint smile, ‘well, that will have to wait. There are things remaining, Father, that I still need to learn.’

  The man looked wretched, but then he slowly straightened and met her eye, and nodded. ‘I will wait, Renarr.’

  She felt that promise like a blow to her chest, and quickly angled away, to struggle with her cloak and fumble at the clasps.

  Behind her, Urusander said, ‘Take your old room tonight, Renarr. Just this night. There are dire events in the town below.’

  She hesitated, and then nodded. ‘This night, then. Very well.’

  ‘And Renarr, tomorrow morning, I would hear from you the details of that young soldier.’

  ‘Of course.’ But he would not. She would be gone with the dawn.

  Bedrooms of girls and boys. All the way to tents and temples. Whoever could have imagined the distance possible between them, all in the span of a handful of years?

  * * *

  Silann walked through the camp, hunched over against the cold. His wife’s new habit of sending him on errands, delivering messages, along with a host of other demeaning tasks, was growing stale. He understood the nature of this punishment, and to begin with he had almost welcomed the escape from her company. Better than weathering the contempt in her eyes, the myriad ways of dismissal she had perfected in his presence.

  Command was a talent, and he was not foolish enough to believe that he possessed it in abundance. Mistakes had been made, but thus far there had been no obvious, or direct, repercussions. That was fortunate and Silann had sensed a rebirth of possibilities, the way ahead opening up. He would do better next time. He would show Esthala that she had not married the wrong man.

  Still, an angry woman carved deep trenches, and pulling her from them would not be an easy task. But he would make her see him in a new way, no matter what it took.

  There had been that boy, that escape. And Gripp Galas. Back then, there was pressure, with choices that needed making, the kind of pressure that could stagger anyone in the same situation. Blood to be spilled, and then quickly buried. Moments of panic could take the surest officer.

  Well, they were past that now. She was holding this grudge far too long. No one deserved the disgust she seemed so determined to level upon him, not after all these years of marriage. Uneventful marriage. No crises, and a son – true, he’s rejected the soldier’s path, but surely we can forgive him that, if only to accept, finally, that his is a weak soul, a soft soul, too tender for most professions, and we well know the harshness of an army’s culture. Its cruelties.

  No, it’s all for the better, Esthala, and all this contempt – for me, for our son, for so many others – it offers no useful salve to your life. You must see that.

  To reveal tenderness, darling, is not a confession of weakness. And even if it is, then we must all know that weakness, with someone.

  You seek to be strong, at all times, in all company. It makes you impatient. It makes you cruel.

  Still, he was done with delivering mundane messages. He would face her down, this night. There were different kinds of strength, after all. He would show her his, and name it love.

  He started as a figure joined him, matching his stride. A glance across revealed a hooded, cloaked form and little else. ‘What is it you wish with me, soldier?’

  ‘Ah, forgive me, Silann. It is Captain Sharenas, fighting the cold however I can.’

  Though she did not draw back the hood, Silann knew the voice. ‘Welcome back, Sharenas. Have you just returned, then?’

  ‘Yes. I was on my way to speak to your wife, in fact.’

  Ah, then … well, Esthala and I will need to find another night, I suppose. Tomorrow night, to work things through, to make it better again. ‘She is awake,’ Silann said. ‘I too am on my way back to her.’

  ‘I assumed as much,’ Sharenas said.

  The camp was relatively quiet, as the cold bit ever deeper. A few fires were still lit, making lurid islands of orange, yellow and red light. But most tents they passed were dark, tied up, as soldiers slept beneath blankets and, if they were lucky, furs.

  ‘Have you reported to Lord Urusander?’ Silann asked.

  ‘I have,’ she replied. ‘It was … extensive. The countryside, Silann, has become a troubled place. Many have died, and few of those were deserving of the violence delivered upon them.’

  ‘That is always the way, in civil war.’

  ‘Worse, of course, when the victims knew nothing of any civil war. When, alas, they were the first ones to fall to it. Knowledge and intention, Silann. In these circumstances, we can name them crimes.’

  A faint tremor slipped through Silann. ‘Have you … have you compiled details, then?’

  ‘As best I could,’ Sharenas replied. ‘It was difficult, as not everyone was willing to
speak to me.’ She paused, and they turned down a side avenue, approaching the command tent of Esthala’s cohort; then she said, ‘But I was fortunate to find some who would.’

  ‘Indeed.’

  ‘Yes. Gripp Galas, for one. And, of course, young Orfantal.’

  Silann’s steps slowed and he half turned to the woman walking beside him. ‘An old man, I’m told, prone to baseless accusations and pointless feuds.’

  ‘Galas? I think not.’

  ‘What then do you wish with my wife?’

  ‘Only what needs doing, Silann. A conversation, just like the one I’m having with you right now.’

  When he halted, Sharenas turned back to face him. The hood still hid her features, but he saw the glitter of her eyes. ‘This is an unpleasant conversation, Sharenas,’ he said. ‘I don’t think my wife will welcome your presence, not tonight, in any case.’

  ‘No, I suspect you’re right in that, Silann. A moment—’ She reached for something under her cloak. ‘I have something for you.’

  He caught a flash of blue iron, felt a sharp sting under his chin, and then it seemed that everything simply drained away.

  Blinking, he found himself lying on the ground, with Sharenas bent over him.

  It was all … strange. Disturbing. He felt a hilt pressed up against the underside of his chin, and something was pouring out from his mouth, sliding thick and hot down his cheeks.

  No. I don’t like this. I’m leaving now. He closed his eyes.

  Sharenas pulled the dagger free. She collected Silann by the collar and dragged him between two equipment tents. Then she cleaned her blade on his cloak and sheathed it again.

  It was only twenty or so paces to Esthala’s tent. Straightening, Sharenas resumed her journey. She reached the front and tapped at the ridge-pole, and then drew back the flap and stepped inside.

  There was a brazier on the floor, emanating dry heat and a soft glow. Beyond that, Esthala was on a cot, settled back but still dressed. She looked over and frowned. Sharenas drew back her hood before the woman could speak, and saw a swift change of expression accompany recognition, but not one she could easily read.

  ‘Sharenas! I see you’ve not yet shed the leagues of travel behind you. But still,’ she sat up, ‘welcome back. There’s mulled wine near that brazier.’

  ‘Your husband will be late, I’m afraid,’ Sharenas said, drawing off her cloak. ‘I ran into him, on his way up to the keep.’

  ‘The keep? That idiot. I told him to send a rider if he did not find one of her acolytes. He gets nothing right.’

  Sharenas collected the pewter jug and poured out two cups of the steaming wine. The sharp smell of almonds wafted up into her face. Leaving one cup where it was, she brought Esthala the other one.

  The captain stood to receive it. ‘So, what brings you to me, then? And couldn’t it wait until the morning?’

  Sharenas smiled. ‘You are legendary, Esthala, for working through the night. I myself recall, when we arrayed for battle on a clear morning, seeing you heavy with sleep. Quite the harridan, in fact.’

  Snorting, Esthala drank.

  From the camp outside, distant alarms rang out.

  ‘What now?’ Esthala asked, turning to set her cup down on the edge of the cot and reaching, at the same time, for her sword-belt.

  ‘Probably me,’ Sharenas replied, drawing her sword.

  Esthala caught the faint rasp and whirled.

  The sword’s blade sliced through the front half of her throat. Sharenas quickly stepped back to avoid most of the blood that sprayed out from the wound.

  Esthala stumbled back, both hands grasping at her neck, and fell awkwardly across the cot, snapping one of its legs. As the cot sagged, the woman rolled off it to settle face-down on the tent floor. Her legs twitched for a few moments, and then fell still.

  Sharenas quickly sheathed her weapon, cursing under her breath. She had been anticipating most of the night, for the work that needed doing. Instead, the Legion camp was now wide awake. And, in moments, one of Esthala’s lieutenants would come to the tent.

  Still, there was time – at least for her to make her way to where the horses were kept. My apologies, Urusander. This hasn’t quite worked out as I had planned. And now I must ride away, with a bounty on my head.

  Not all the nobles are hiding in their keeps, doing nothing. I will defend my blood first, Urusander. Surely you’ll understand that. Civil war is a messy business, isn’t it? Just ask Gripp Galas.

  The rage within her remained bright and hot. It yielded a fierce, demanding thirst. She had wanted to stalk the night, moving through the camp, from one command tent to the next. For you, Vatha Urusander. And for Kurald Galain.

  And another. But he rides far from here now, seeking the woman he would marry. I am relieved, Kagamandra, that you do not see me on this night, nor the trail of blood I have left behind me. And now, alas, I must flee, my work unfinished. And that, my friend, galls.

  With her dagger, she cut through the back wall of the tent, and then slipped out into the night.

  * * *

  Humiliation bred a kind of hunger. Dreams of vengeance and acts of malice. Corporal Parlyn of the Ninth Company in the Silvers stood near the tavern door, leaning against the frame, and eyed Bortan and Skrael as they stood over the headless corpse of Captain Serap, their expressions difficult to read in the wavering light.

  Neither man was displeased, she was certain, at Serap’s sudden demise. And if not for the beating they’d taken at her hands, incapacitating both of them for most of this night, they would have been among the first suspects in the murder.

  The four brothers who had been sitting near the captain, however, were consistent in their retelling of events, and their tale matched that of the barkeep and his pale, shivering son. A travel-stained officer of the Legion had sat with Serap, engaging in quiet conversation that was brought to an abrupt end with the slash of a sword. Serap’s head was still lying on the table, stuck there, cheek and hair, by the thick pool of blood beneath it.

  Serap’s lips were parted, caught in an instant of surprise. Her eyes, half-lidded, stared out with the chilling disinterest of the dead. Earlier that evening, Corporal Parlyn had stood opposite her, facing a sharp dressing down in front of her squad. The wake of that had curdled Parlyn’s insides, stung bitter and dark with vague hatred. But even that was not enough to leave her satisfied at the captain’s death.

  Hunn Raal had come and gone. A few words ventured by the corporal, relating the story told by the witnesses, and then he was off, but not before countermanding his initial order to scour the town. It was, perhaps, the reason for her squad’s present disgruntlement. Bortan and Skrael had both drawn closer to the four brothers, who stood in a nervous clump behind their table. The stench of blood was heavy in the air, and, like wolves, her two soldiers were ready to bare fangs.

  Humiliation. The denizens of the tavern had witnessed it, delivered by Serap herself, and Bortan and Skrael were hungry to pass it on.

  Parlyn was tired. They’d been given the task of removing what was left of Serap, but it seemed that her energy – what little remained – was trickling away, drip by drip. Even her soldiers stood as if uncertain where to start.

  But a vicious fight with the locals would answer their need quickly enough. Sighing, she stirred into motion, stepping into the room. ‘Skrael, find us a sack, for the head. Bortan, take Feled there and go hunt us down a stretcher.’ She paused, glancing across to the last three soldiers in the squad. ‘The rest of you, take station outside, eyes on the street.’

  That last command was not well received. It was cold out there. Parlyn scowled until the three soldiers shuffled towards the door. She glanced back to see the barkeep appear from the kitchen with a burlap sack, which he pushed into Skrael’s hands.

  Bortan, with a final glare back at the brothers, joined Feled at the door. They exited.

  One of the brothers stepped forward, eyes on Parlyn, who raised her brows. The man hes
itated, and then said, ‘She did good by us, sir. We’d like to be the ones to carry that stretcher … to wherever it needs going.’

  Parlyn frowned. She glanced across at Skrael, who stood near the table, staring down at the severed head. There was no question that he’d heard. The corporal moved close to the farmer and said in a low voice, ‘I appreciate the sentiment, but by the time Bortan gets back, I expect you four to be gone. Our blood’s up, you see. Someone’s murdered a Legion officer. It’s our business now.’

  The man looked back at his brothers, and then faced her again. ‘To show our respect, you see.’

  ‘I understand. If her ghost lingers, she’ll know how you feel. Go home, now.’

  ‘Well, I hope you catch that murderer, that’s all.’

  ‘We will.’

  The four made their way out of the tavern. Parlyn watched them leave and then turned to see Skrael glaring at her.

  ‘Yes,’ she snapped, ‘it’d be easier, wouldn’t it?’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘If they were the shits you wanted them to be.’

  ‘Not just me, sir. You called us out this night, to do some hunting.’

  ‘I did. Turns out, we were hunting the wrong enemy. I’ll accept that, with humility. You might try the same. Now, is that a coin there in the blood?’

  He looked down at the table. ‘It is.’

  ‘Slip it into her mouth and close up that jaw, if you can. Silver eases the ghost.’

  Skrael nodded. ‘So they say.’

  He collected up the coin and studied it for a moment. ‘Barkeep says this one was Sharenas’s. Paying for the drink, I suppose.’

  Parlyn had heard the same. It seemed an odd thing to do. She wondered about the conversation between those two officers, and how it could have led to what had happened here. She wondered, too, how Hunn Raal had known.

  The sound the head made when Skrael pulled it free triggered in Parlyn an old memory from her childhood. Out behind the house where the wagon ruts ran down into that dip in the road. Mud that could pull your boot right off if you weren’t careful.

  We used to think it was bottomless, that mud, enough to suck you right down, swallow you whole.