In other ways, the General’s recurring scowl suggested a grudge. At first, Bifalt suspected that Klamath resented the burdens he had been given, the decisions he had been forced to make. Then Bifalt dismissed the notion. Klamath was not a resentful man. Whatever vexed him now had a deeper cause.

Murmuring greetings, the two men came to the King’s side. When they had touched his bound hand and frowned at the state of his face, they found stools for themselves and sat.

Bifalt had questions, but he did not know how to ask them. He had forgotten some of the words, or he could not decide where to begin.

Elgart spoke first. Feigning seriousness, he said, “You will inquire about my injury, Majesty.” His grin mocked his tone. “I can only say that I do not recommend using the Decimate of fire to cauterize an eye. The pain was extraordinary. I still wonder whether I am alive.”

Klamath snorted. “Magister Astride does not doubt it.” Then he told the King, “That woman has refined her gifts, Majesty. She is capable of more than you know. She took command when she heard that Elgart was in danger. Fool that he is, he risked himself against all of those infantrymen to warn me that you needed us. Without him, I would not have known where to look. Magister Astride and Magister Trench rescued him from the full cost of his recklessness.”

Bifalt remembered Astride. She had saved him and all of his people when he had destroyed Belleger’s Fist. If she had become capable of more, she was truly remarkable. But he had not realized that she knew Elgart—or that she cared enough to hazard her life for him.

Privately, he sighed again, saddened by his own ignorance. Then he let it go.

“And you, Klamath?”

The General glared at his bound stump. “There is nothing to tell, Majesty. I was slow.” A moment later, he betrayed a hint of belligerence. “I will have more to say when you have asked your questions.”

Bifalt accepted this. “Then speak of my brother.” Jaspid had rushed away from Bifalt in battle, a choice so uncharacteristic that it suggested madness. I am sorry, Brother. “Is he well?”

“He is, Majesty,” answered Klamath gruffly. “A little bruised, no more. He looked in on you earlier, but you were asleep. Now he trains with that devotee, Lylin.”

Elgart chuckled. “He calls it training. I call it courtship. I would fear for him, but she appears to be as smitten as he is.” The scarred man laughed outright. “They are a perfect match, Majesty. Imagine them sharing a home filled with wrecked furniture, broken crockery, and passion.”