At noon he changed from Ataelus to Ariosto, and he rode above the plains of Arles. He could already see the high ridge where the King of Galle had failed to make his last stand; he could see the Royal Army of Galle’s last camp, the defensive lines full of weeds but stark and clear. Most of the Gallish army had died; the Odine hadn’t needed them. But it was still possible that one of the naked, starving survivors of the not-dead was the King of Galle. Michael had his orders.

It was odd to do his own scouting, but he had the magical mount and the skills to defend himself, and he located the Huscarls and the Harndoners, jogging along at a fast trot, commanded by Harald Derkensun. He descended in a lazy spiral and waved, and they cheered, and he flew on, chose them a campsite, and landed to tell Derkensun. It was very late when the first of Count Zac’s outriders approached, but the fires were lit and the food was cooked, the wagons laagered. The weather was cool and dry, and not a tent had been pitched. They had no tents; not even a pavilion for the emperor.

Nor did they dig in.

Gabriel slept between Anne and Jon Gang, and awoke in the darkness to find frost on his blanket. It was coming to autumn in Arles. He rose and stretched, told Anne he was not going to shave, and began to arm with Gang.

The man was incredibly competent, but then, he’d been chosen to serve the emperor. Anne appeared with hot cider. The sun was rising as they set off into it.

“Twenty-one days,” Mortirmir said as they crested their first ridge of the day.

They rode together for a while. Behind them, Ariosto gave a bark of annoyance and then a short scream; he was hungry.

“Do you ever think about how powerful we are?” Mortirmir asked, apropos of nothing.

“All the time,” Gabriel said.

“Really?” Mortirmir said, in his most annoying, I’m-so-much-smarter-than-you voice.

“Well, I am emperor, and while an emperor can be powerless, the current situation has given me almost unlimited—”

Mortirmir waved a hand to interrupt. “Oh, temporal power,” he said, as if the ability to command nations and armies were a thing of no consequence. “I mean magery. Real power.”

Gabriel managed half a smile. “I have been known to give it a thought,” he said.

“Lot is dead,” Morgon said.

“I told you that,” Gabriel managed. Mortirmir was never easy to talk to.

“You and I are inarguably the most puissant mages alive. Well, and Harmodius.” Mortirmir spoke of the royal mage as if he were an afterthought.

“You think you are more puissant than Harmodius?” Gabriel asked.