Klamath cut him off. “Enough, Captain,” he said too harshly. “We must go. You did as much as Mattwil allowed. He is responsible for himself.”

Kicking his mount, Klamath turned away.

After a moment of uncertainty, Matt joined him. Together, they left the camp, following the track on its winding way toward the Open Hand and duty.

The General kept his thoughts to himself until they put the afternoon sun squarely at their backs. As their shadows began to stretch in front of them, he finally broke into Matt’s silence.

“Enough,” he said again, still too harshly. “I am something worse than your commander, Matt. I am your friend. You cannot keep this to yourself, whatever it is. Tell me about Mattwil.”

Then he listened, aching, while his old friend obeyed.

“Did you know?” Matt seemed to address the shadows. “He has a girl with him. A little thing. He could break her with one hand. But old enough to know abuse. Intense enough to value kindness. She clings to him.

“He does not cling to her. But he accepts her as if she has become necessary. He hardly spoke to me, except to tell me her name. She is Cloras. From Maloresse.”

Go on, thought Klamath. Take your time. Say it.

Half groaning, Matt continued.

“He is battered, my son. Hands mangled. Nails broken. Bruises everywhere. His eyes reminded me of running sores. At first, I saw resentment in them. Then I thought that I was not real to him. A figment from someone else’s past.

“Cloras spoke for him. She has a kind of timid boldness. She seemed to defend him. She asked if I knew you. ‘Your General sent him here,’ she said. ‘That was cruel. Look at him.’

“I was looking. I could not look away.

“After a moment, he told her that he thought so at first. ‘But I needed this work,’ he said. ‘Where else can I make amends?’

“I tried to engage him, but I did not know how. ‘Will you return to the Open Hand now?’ I asked. ‘You and Cloras? I am the General’s First Captain. I can take you with me, both of you. And I have news from your mother. She wrote to me, a letter carried by a man you know, a man and his family, neighbors leaving their home to escape the threat of war. Matta sends—’

“He stared at me until my throat closed. First, he said, ‘Cloras has no family.’ He seemed to reprimand me. Then he said, ‘My place is here. I will not desert again.’ ”

With his head turned away, Matt asked like a cry, “What else could I do, Klamath? He is a man, not a boy. He has chosen his life. How can I tell him to make a different choice?”

Klamath felt his friend’s anguish. In the cold, his tears stung his eyes. His voice was a growl of compassion.