It took him aback to see Talamir there—Talamir, sitting in one of the hearthside chairs, and the sun still in the sky, for Talamir never was free enough to come back here before sundown. Talamir’s expression told him the worst even before the King’s Own opened his mouth; he froze, feeling as if something had just petrified him in place. He knew; he knew. And it didn’t take a Gift to tell him.

For a moment, he couldn’t breathe. For a moment, he was stunned. The blow had fallen.

The Tedrels were moving.

“This is the season,” Talamir said, and that was all he needed to say. So the bait had been taken, the misinformation believed. This season, as soon as the rains stopped, the rivers subsided, and the ground was firm instead of mired, the Tedrels would make their all-or-nothing push.

He’d wanted it and dreaded it in equal parts, and now it had come.

He nodded, for there wasn’t much that he could say at this point. Other than: “Know where, do we? When?”

“When—well, they’re going to take a little longer than usual. They’re going to try and browbeat the Karsites into adding troops, and if they can’t get troops, they plan to demand money so they can hire whatever non-Guild scum they can hold together under a banner.” Talamir sounded quite certain of that information, which meant that someone had overheard something he (or she) technically shouldn’t have. “They want shock troops to take the brunt of battle, so their own can move in behind, undamaged. And they’ll want a bigger base to move from than before, one that will hold all of their people and possessions in it, ready to move into Valdemar as soon as they take it.”

“But where?” he persisted. That was critical. When they knew where the Tedrels were going to come across, they could set up their own defensive lines on ground of their choosing.

“Not yet,” Talamir admitted. “Other than that we don’t think it’ll be Holderkin lands. The last taste of them that the Tedrels got didn’t seem to agree with them.”