“I am not interested in your advice,” Gahalatine snapped. “Invoke the wards and be gone! I’ll have none of you eavesdropping while I negotiate with her.”

“My lord,” Albion said, shaking his head, but the fire in Gahalatine’s eyes was such that the Wizr bowed meekly and turned without finishing his sentence. He began muttering words of power, making subtle hand gestures as he did so, and Trynne felt a blanket of magic descend atop the pavilion. The murmuring of the camp became distant and then hushed into quiet, like snow piling atop snow in a blizzard.

Albion ducked out of the tent, and Trynne felt as if a darkness had been lifted.

Gahalatine was still holding her hand. He grazed her knuckle with his thumb and led her toward one of the veils blocking the deeper interior of the tent. He parted the curtain for her, but he needed to duck himself to enter. The floor was covered in a massive tangle of fur rugs and cushions, and there were chests to one side and an empty armor rack to the other. Gahalatine unbuckled his sword belt and hung it on the rack. When he released her hand, she felt suddenly cold and very unsure of herself.

“My lord, am I correct in supposing that you still desire . . . what you wanted before?” she said, trying to keep her voice from quavering. “What you told me when I was in Chandigarl?”

He unfastened his cloak and tossed it to the floor before turning to face her.

“We are not going to start our negotiations yet.” He gave her a lingering look and scrubbed his hand through his hair. “You’re utterly exhausted. Come sit over here. Let me tend to you.” He shut the lid of one of the chests and led her over to it by the arm, treating her with as much deference as a servant would. Though she was a little unsure of him, of the strange situation, she seated herself on the chest. He glanced around the room before retrieving a washbowl and carrying it over.

“Here, hold this in your lap,” he said, setting it there. Then he dipped a cleaning rag fringed with gold into the water and started wiping the woad from her face. She saw the smudges of blue, brown, and even red leach into the fabric. He dunked it again, squeezing it hard with both hands, and continued to wipe her face. He was on his knees in front of her, treating her with tenderness and gentleness. She felt the shudder come a moment before it happened.

“Are you cold?” he asked her with worry.

“The water is a little cold,” she said.