Michael walked to the fireplace, poured himself some rewarmed hippocras, and then walked to Master Julius’s writing table. He took the stack of copied messages on the board labeled Imperial and, with them, settled into his hard chair. He drank off about half of his hippocras.

“Ready?” he asked the emperor.

“Go,” Gabriel replied.

Albinkirk. Ser Shawn. Multiple reports of Odine activity west of Albinkirk. Observed Odine emergence in standing stones personally. Request Magister immediately.

Lissen Carak. Abbess Miriam. Multiple sightings of Odine-infected creatures in townships. Screening process in place. Choir to cast Al Rashidi counter tonight. Pray for us. Four thousand, two hundred and six laborers employed on field works; am concerned for their camp. Request military support.

Harndon. Desiderata in person. Advance guard under Ranald Lachlan on river for Albinkirk fastest route. Harmodius with Lachlan. Plague attacks in Harndon now sporadic. Will accompany rear guard in person.

Southford. Prince Tancred. Allied reserve army moving west . . .

Michael looked up. “Did we order that?”

“Nope,” Gabriel said. “Gareth Montjoy has a mind of his own and no great love for me.”

Michael looked down again . . . moving west. South bank of Cohocton, looking to relieve Ser Gavin. Odine-controlled creatures in woods. Due caution employed . . . Damn it? Is he wode? He could be supporting Miriam at Lissen Carak.

“The Odine are moving,” Gabriel said. “So they think the gate’s opening in six days, too.” He laughed grimly. “You know, the Odine are awakening to a nearly empty landscape, so the last three years of war may have actually been for something.”

“We can hope Miriam will burn them back tonight,” Michael said.

Anne’s razor lifted, and the emperor raised his head. “Think how fast the rebel responded,” he said.

Morgon Mortirmir was cutting an apple on Master Julius’s table, to the notary’s considerable consternation. “The rebel was a mishmash,” he said. “An amalgam. A multidisciplinary entity of men and Odine in rebellion against the will.” He made a face. “Apple, anyone?”

“What are you saying, Morgon?” Michael asked. He seldom understood the young magister, who operated so deep in a web of his own perceptions that he spoke in mysteries.

“Ah, apologies,” Morgon said, raising his head. “I mean that the rebel had . . . skills, and attributes, and even . . . capabilities that the will is unlikely to possess.”

“Do you know that?” Michael asked.

Morgon smiled nastily. “I subsumed the last of the rebel,” he said. “I can read its memories.”

As was common when Morgon spoke, no one had an answer.

“Well,” Gabriel said. “We’ll just accept that, then.”

Anne cut away at his sideburns and murmured something, gave him a hot towel, and he sat up, thanking her.

The Caesar, George Comnena, came in, bowed, was bowed to. Took a cup of hippocras, and leafed through Blanche’s and Sukey’s notes on logistics.

Michael went back to the messages. He read: