The cliché made him laugh. Such things had never reassured him. Only courage sufficed. Courage and clear wits.

Unable to match Prince Jaspid’s example, he lurched to his feet. Long days in the saddle had not prepared him to run for his life. Every limb and joint protested as he left his post near the King and approached the campfire where the Magisters sat together as if they were alone in the night.

Summoning the insolence that had served him so well as a spy, he nudged a place for himself between two of the earthquake-wielders and sat down like a man who belonged there.

They all stared at him. Tightly wrapped in their winter cloaks and rain-capes, they looked like interrupted mourners, men and women who had gathered to grieve for their lost comrades. Elgart’s intrusion did not please them. Nevertheless he smiled cheerfully and ignored them. He had come for Magister Astride.

He had chosen a seat opposite hers. Across the flames, he studied her for the first time. Until this evening, he had only known her by sight—and only at a distance. Now he regarded her openly.

She was a Bellegerin woman in her middle years. Despite her efforts earlier, the contrast between her prematurely silver hair and her unlined features made her seem almost young. Because it had once been his business to know such things, he knew that she was unmarried, childless. Now he wondered why. Her features were more than pleasant: they were pleasing. The brown of her eyes promised warmth under better circumstances.

The way the firelight moved across her features exposed her sadness as well as her fatigue. It also hinted at something more, something that resembled recrimination. Elgart guessed that she blamed herself for Bone’s death. If her stamina had not failed—

Then he thought that perhaps she blamed him. After all, he had dragged her away when she might have succeeded.

With a mental shrug, he absolved himself. He had acted on the King’s orders. Losing Magister Bone was bad enough. Losing her would have been much worse.

When she noticed him staring at her, Magister Astride frowned; ducked her head into the shelter of her cloak’s hood.

No better time—

“Magister Astride,” he said, fulsome with appreciation, “I am in awe.”

Her head jerked up. Surprise widened her eyes. She had not expected him to address her—and certainly not with awe.

Without a word, the other Magisters adjusted their seats, enabling their comrades beside Elgart to shift away from him. The one on his left, an older man, glared at him. The woman on his right kept her face turned away. In some sense, they must have known who he was. His scar was unmistakable, even by firelight. But they were both Amikan, unfamiliar with him. Their silence emphasized that he was not welcome.

He ignored them. Smiling, he concentrated his gaze on Astride.