Yudit’s eyes were already open. Seeing him, she nodded but stayed curled on the damp ground, knees tucked up to her chest as if that could protect her from the nightly assaults. On hands and knees, anxious not to alert the soldiers, he negotiated the cluster of prisoners until he tracked down the one crying: Dena, the other twelve-year-old whose hair the cloaked lord braided.

He placed a hand on her back. “Hush now,” he murmured. “I’m here.”

He knew better than to warn her that crying could get her murdered. They all knew, and to say it aloud would only frighten them more. Nor did he bother to ask what was wrong. If they wanted to speak, they would; otherwise, he respected their silence.

She pressed her face against his chest until her shudders ceased. “Shai, you’ll always stay with us, won’t you?”

“I’m here.” The dawn whistle blew twice. “Get up now, Dena. Roust your banner. Get them up and moving.”

“Yes, Shai.”

Judging it safe to rise as the soldiers were now beginning to move, he hurried over to Yudit. “How are you this morning?”

“I can manage,” she said wearily. “Jasya and Wori are bleeding again.”

“I’ll keep an eye on them. Get your banner together.”

She began moving children toward the stream to drink before they formed into marching ranks. Mercifully, it had not rained last night and their clothing mostly remained dry but for dew and the moisture seeping up from damp earth. Four days ago, a boy sick with a phlegm-ridden cough had been cut out and killed before Shai could get to him. Now Shai watched constantly for signs of increasing sickness.

He walked through the assembling banners and chose the six strongest children. When the call came for prisoners to take down the canvas under which the soldiers sheltered, he led this group through their routine: stakes pulled, rope coiled, canvas shaken out and rolled up and bound onto the packhorses. He slouched through the tasks, grinning at the soldiers.

“Cold today,” he said to the sergeant. “Didn’t rain last night.”

“A wise observation,” replied the sergeant. “Now get on with you. We’re moving out.”

“Need wood chopped?” he asked a cadre of soldiers, who laughed as they shouldered axes and staves.

He peered into the surrounding woodland, but the lord—who always slept well away from the camp—had already departed on his daytime scouting. The watchful boy walked into camp lugging folded canvas over his thin shoulders.

“Vali,” said Shai, stepping closer. “You are well today?”

The lad shrugged, his gaze downcast instead of prying.

“Dena was crying this morning,” added Shai.

“It’s my fault. I asked the lord for more food last night. Like you asked me to do. He got angry. I guess he took it out on Dena.”

“Neh. It’s my fault for suggesting it. It was brave of you to ask. Never doubt that.”

“Heya! Heya! Up now! Get in line!”

The sergeant strode along the line with whip in hand. He was the kind of man, Shai had decided, who liked to wield his power to make people cringe, and he had a habit of whipping at dawn whichever girl he had raped the night before. There he strutted, and Shai quickly cut back to the line, falling in beside Yudit just as the sergeant reached her with whip raised. Shai made a show of blundering forward, just in time to catch the slash across his own back.