“Aneas took Lake-on-the-Mountain right under Orley’s nose,” he said exultantly. “Nice work, useless little brother.” He nodded at Michael. “He was our mother’s favourite after . . .” He paused. “Never mind. Ash will be weakened now, and distracted.”

He read through another, and another, his expression changing. “I am . . . concerned about Lissen Carak,” he said. “The Odine are moving and the royal army is not yet in place. Even Alcaeus is moving; he’s taking the rest of the Morean reserves toward Middleburg as of yesterday.”

“All the eggs in one basket,” Michael said.

“What can the Odine accomplish without bodies?” Blanche asked.

Gabriel thought a moment. “I don’t know anything,” he said.

“You really need to look out of this window,” Kaitlin said.

Gabriel walked to the window, a cup in his hand, and looked out over the plain of Arles.

There, laid before him like a child’s collection of toy soldiers, was the army. The army. Almost fifty thousand men and women, a sizable proportion of them mounted; a vast wagon train, grain carts, water carts, knights, archers, light cavalry . . .

They filled the plain.

Michael came and stood by his shoulder. “The company had a good recruiting day,” he said with a smile.

“Fifty thousand,” Gabriel said. “Holy . . . Lord.”

The Wild—Bill Redmede

Bill Redmede stood looking at the morning mist rising over an autumn valley filled with beaver swamp and scrubby spruce trees that appeared dark and gothic against the golden brilliance of the foliage on the ridges above.

“We are more than halfway to the Inner Sssea,” Tapio said. “It isss very beautiful here. Thisss valley sssings to me. I wish for Tamsssin.”

Redmede frowned. “I wish there was more here.” He shook his head. “I haven’t seen a deer in a day. Nor a track of deer or moose.”

Langtree, one of the Golden Bears that had broken out with them, paused to distribute late-season blackberries. “We know this, grr, valley,” he said. He had a very expressive face; his big eyes were a golden brown. “Grrr. Strange, rrrr, valley.” He swung his linen bucket by the handle, a fearsome warrior turned into a bear drunk on berries.

“Strange how?” Tapio asked.

“Mrrrm,” Langtree said. “Witch-bears come, grr? Come here, rrr? Test their powers and grow them, mmmmrrrr?”

Kwoqwethogan ate a handful of the berries. “These are full of green potentia,” he said. He took a wooden cup carved from a maple burl and beautifully inlaid in gold and silver, and with a nod of permission from Langtree, he dipped a measure of berries and poured them into his beak.

“Ahh,” he said. “Ahhh,” he said again, as purple-blue fire played along his back. His red ridge crest engorged and rose atop his head. “Ha!” he exclaimed. “Damn. That cleared my head.”

Langtree nodded. “Witch bears say the berries here grow all year.”