Then she mounted Caryo again, summoned Alberich and the Lord Marshal with a glance, and rode from the silent field back to the encampment. For a moment, a curtain of gray haze came between Alberich and the world; it cleared up in the next heartbeat, but it was a sign he couldn’t ignore.

Alberich signaled Kantor to drop back a pace, putting him even with Ylsa. “You and Keren—” he began.

“We’ve already figured you’re in no shape to protect anything,” the rangy Herald told him bluntly. “We’re on it. And what’s more, the minute she dismisses you, there’ll be a Healer waiting to take you off.”

“Ah—my thanks,” he managed. Let them decide for themselves what he was thanking them for. He urged Kantor up again. They passed through the camp, and as they did, it was through another corridor of battered fighters. Some wanted to touch her or Caryo, some just saluted her respectfully. Some murmured things like “The Gods bless you, Majesty,” and others gazed in worshipful silence. A tiny shard of Alberich’s mind that was still able to think was both pleased and sorrowful at these demonstrations. Pleased, because his work with her among the fighters had born such fruit—and full of remorse because the harvest had been gathered too soon.

They moved now through a blue haze of twilight; he was grateful, for it cloaked the injuries, hid the wounds of men and beasts in soft shadows from which the color had been leeched. And he was grateful, too, for the fact that he needed only to sit Kantor’s saddle for the moment. He wasn’t certain he was up to much else. When they reached the command tent, she paused, and did not dismount as he had expected she would. Instead she turned Caryo so that they faced the crowd of quiet men and women who had followed her.