“Captain Kurkas talks too much.” Viktor scowled in rare embarrassment. Talkative or no, he wished Kurkas were at his side. But there was too much at stake, and he needed a trusted voice to the south. If only he’d as much confidence in Masnar and her rabble in the broken ground to the north. “I wish you’d fight on foot.”

Calenne arched an eyebrow at the artless change of topic. “A fine sentiment from a man who refuses a shield.”

“A shield slows me down.”

“And relying on my own feet slows me down. We’ve been over this.”

“The horse makes you a target.”

“It makes me a symbol. We both know I’m no soldier. If I’ve any value, it’s when folk can see me – when they see my mother, if they’re so inclined. They can’t do that if I’m lost among the wheat. Not even if I jump up and down . . . which wouldn’t be very dignified.”

He chuckled at the image of her bobbing up and down like a child on a teeter-tilt. Southwealders shot him startled glances. It seemed mirth was an unfit companion for the legend of Akadra the Phoenix-Slayer. Akadra the Monster.

Good.

“Honestly, Viktor,” said Calenne. “You needn’t worry. I shall do nothing needless.”

He nodded, painfully aware she was there only because of his actions. At his insistence, the proctors had assigned a full dozen simarka to her defence. They couldn’t shield her from arrows, but anything else . . . ?

“I suppose that will have to do.”

“Ever the gallant.” She tugged a length of blue ribbon from her plaits and pressed it into his hand. “Here.”

“What’s this?”

“A token of my favour to remind you why you’re fighting. That’s the done thing, isn’t it?”

He wound the material through his fingers. “I’ve duty for that.”

“Duty.” She growled the word in gruff imitation. “To the Republic, I suppose?”

“I am the Council’s champion.”

“And today you’re mine also.”

Viktor glanced at the ribbon, and then at Calenne. He marked the tightness about her eyes. The slight, erratic twitch of her lower lip. Had a scryer foretold their friendship in a hand of pentassa cards, he’d have laughed. But friendship there was, nonetheless . . . and perhaps a glimpse of . . .

They both had something more to lose this day.

He shrugged his claymore from his shoulders and knotted the ribbon about the pommel. “Strange. Seems heavier now. And too pretty a gift for a monster.”

“I thought you weren’t a monster?”

“I am today. We must all be as monstrous as events demand.”

“Then go, be a monster. Just remember that the man owes me a ribbon.”

The thunder of drums split the sky. Away beyond the sea of wheat, the golden line swelled.