The dress she wore was deep, cobalt blue, and made of a light material that compensated for the heat. It bore a high collar, the right side of which was decorated with five golden pips, a more efficient version of the knots that would have denoted her rank on her officer jacket. On her left breast was an embroidered, black unicorn rampant. The dress was without sleeves and reached only to her knees. It was tight, which would make it difficult to fight in if it came to that. Even so, Devorah had done up her hair with her dirk-like hairpins.

She sat in the same courtyard where she had first had coffee with Princess Gitonga. She sat with the Diviner of Winds now and with another princess of the council, Princess Jengo, Chief Architect. Though the Night Hunter and her cronies were interested only in killing her, Princess Gitonga had assured her there were some on the council who did not agree with the mad shapechanger. When Devorah had explained what House Kempenny might have to give in exchange for support against House Loreamer, Princess Gitonga had known just who to talk with.

“But where does it all go?” asked the Chief Architect, Princess Jengo.

Devorah wished she better understood the details of indoor plumbing. She shrugged. “Honestly, Princess, I don't know. All I know is that it does work.”

Princess Jengo rubbed at her chin thoughtfully. The Chief Architect was clad in workman's clothes despite the fashionable demands of nightlife at the Court of the Council of Princesses, but Devorah imagined that her position of Chief Architect let her get away with the rough workman's clothes.

“I can imagine some of how such a system might work, but it would require an infrastructure overhaul on the entire city. And I doubt I can initiate such a project without first creating a working example, which will take me, even with my great resources, quite some time.”

Princess Gitonga interrupted. “What about information from your home, Devorah? Surely someone there must understand how it works. The system would fall apart without maintenance.”

Devorah slapped her forehead. “Of course. I can make a trip home and find someone who knows how all this works.”

Princess Jengo threw up her hands. “I don't have time for you to sail home and back. There are plenty of other projects I'm working on that I know will work.”

Devorah held up her hands. “I have a faster mode of travel than sailing, Princess. If I can assure you that I'll get you the information you need, will you support my petition to the council?”

Princess Jengo laughed and shook her head. “You truly believe you'll survive this petition?”

Devorah nodded. “But what do you care? You'll get the information whether I live or not.”

“It is foolish of you to promise me the information when the Night Hunter intends to gut you.”

“It's only foolish if I think I can't win.”

Princess Jengo looked at Princess Gitonga. “Is she mad?”

“Maybe so,” Princess Gitonga replied. “But she's determined.”

Around them, the babble of quiet conversations filled the courtyard, everyone determined to be seen conducting private business. It was the purpose of the courtyard. The dichotomy of private business conducted in public was a part of the game. But Devorah, open to secrets, was privy to all that transpired:

A whispered conversation in a quiet corner of the courtyard anguished over infidelity between a Yoshida dignitary and his wife back home. His hands were white-knuckled on the table, his face impassive, as the spy showed him the letters written between his wife and her lover. The dignitary's mind was on murder.

In the center of the courtyard, a princess Devorah did not know laughed loudly, a perfect peal bubbling over all other sounds, drawing attention to her. Her secret thoughts were on attracting the notice of the diplomat from Ithica though she was surrounded by beautiful dandies.

But most importantly, for Devorah, behind that thoughtful expression, Princess Jengo was strongly tempted to accept her offer and would happily pledge whatever support the Council of Princesses could offer. She was concerned far more with mechanics and engineering than with politics or war.

Finally, she nodded. “All right then. I will pledge all the support I can on the council in exchange for the working details of this plumbing system.”

Devorah smiled. She was about to seal the deal with a handshake when the thoughts of Scribe Johann intruded upon her. He was looking for her while trying to look unobtrusive, a task he'd have been much better at if he'd not tried so hard. Devorah looked around and found the slight man at the edge of the courtyard, casting his gaze about. Princess Gitonga followed her gaze and frowned. She didn't like the scribe.

“Ladies, if you'll excuse me for a moment.” Devorah made her way to the nervous scribe and was upon him before he spotted her. It was a good thing, Devorah thought, that he'd chosen a profession that expected from him only the truth.

“Scribe Johann.”

The young man jumped and clutched at his chest. “I didn't see you there Gen... I mean, uh... Warchief Kempenny.”

“I thought you would be busy with transcription all night,” Devorah said, a hint of rebuke in her tone. Thinking on the black book with her shield down summoned the prickly song. She ignored it as best she could.

Convincing Johann to help her transcribe the black book had been only a matter of using the right words. Recalling how Madam Iyabo had talked about necromancy. “Somebody must guard against the undead, Johann,” she had said. “Though this book describes horrible procedures, it also details the strengths and weaknesses of the creatures. This information is far too valuable to be lost.” It didn't hurt that he was happy to do whatever she asked.

“Yes, sir. Sorry, sir. I was working on it when… that is, the King, King Haland? He has summoned you.”

Devorah frowned. “How can the Mountain King summon me?” she asked.

“You're his Warchief,” Johann said, as though it were the most obvious thing in the world.

“I know that, Scribe Johann. But the Mountain King is still in the Mountain Kingdom, unless I am mistaken.” Devorah knew she was not. If King Haland had arrived in the Taranaki Empire, she'd have heard of it, and if he had come in secret, she'd have heard that too.

“Oh. Yes. Right. Well, I don't really understand it since I haven't got a spirit totem.”

That was entirely unhelpful. However, if King Haland wanted to speak with her, she wasn't about to pass up the opportunity.

“Devorah?” Princess Gitonga approached, looking angrily at Scribe Johann, who quailed under her gaze.

Devorah smiled at Princess Gitonga. “Duty calls. Please tell the Chief Architect that I'll have the information to her as soon as I can.”

“Are you going home tonight? I could come with you,” Princess Gitonga said.

Devorah gestured at Scribe Johann. “King Haland requests an audience.” She heard Scribe Johann's gasp at her audacious interpretation of the summons. “I'm sorry, Princess, but in this case you are an official of the Taranaki Empire, and this is not your business.”

Devorah hated to do it, to see the hurt in her friend's eyes, but whatever cooperation she could get from King Haland might conflict with the Empire. She had to keep her loyalties separated.

Gitonga nodded once. “Very well, General Kempenny.”

Devorah didn't watch Princess Gitonga deliberately turn her back and walk away. She knew, even though she'd hurt her friend, Princess Gitonga would not abandon her for this slight. She would still have the Diviner of Winds' loyalty and could afford to hurt her this small bit.

• • •

A room in the suites of the dignitaries from the Mountain Kingdom had been made up to resemble a throne room. A single large chair stood in the center of the room. Two guards bearing large battle-axes stood on either side of the door. At her side stood Captain Morten, Warchief Haland's second in command, and now hers. Upon the chair rested a rumpled, yellow-brown fur.

Devorah looked at Captain Morten. “I thought I was meeting with King Haland.” Captain Morten gave her a flat look. Though she now outranked him and he appreciated the former warchief's death, apparently she was being rude.

Devorah returned her gaze to the empty throne. She didn't have to wait long before she felt the power in that fur, a strange mixture of telepathy and necromancy. Devorah quickly wrapped her shield about her mind and put her hand on the hilt of her rapier. Once out of the courtyard, she was allowed overt weaponry again and, after her encounter with the dead warchief, wasn't about to go around unarmed.

The air above the chair wavered and the room became noticeably cooler. She envied the men of the Mountain Kingdom their fur clothes and cursed her slip of a dress, no matter how pretty it was.

And then a specter of a man sat in the chair. He was large, as were most the men of the Mountain Kingdom. He was festooned in furs, most prominently that of a great yellow-brown bear. The hood of the fur cloak was the intact, upper portion of the bear's head, allowing the long, yellowed teeth of the beast to hang over the spectral man's brow.

Captain Morten dropped to one knee and bowed his head.

Devorah bowed as she used to bow to her aunt, but kept her feet. “King Haland?”

The large man tugged thoughtfully at his shaggy, blond beard. His brows creased in a slight frown. “From the stories, I had thought the niece of Erin Kempenny would be a great, hulking girl with claws for fingers and blazing red eyes. You're just a girl.” His voice came as though from a great distance, like Madam Iyabo's when she spoke into Devorah's mind.

Devorah smiled her most disarming smile and spread her hands. “I can hardly help that, Your Majesty.”

“Ah, now that I recognize, the wily words of a Kempenny woman. Your aunt used to smile at me in just that way.” It was not a compliment.

“Which brings us to the matter of importance, Your Majesty. I–“

“Silence! I demanded your presence, not the other way around. You will not dictate the importance of this audience.”

Devorah, with some trepidation, let fall her shield, ready to snap it back up in an instant. When she was not attacked, she relaxed, taking in the thoughts of the men in the room.

The guards, outwardly impassive, watched the proceedings with interest. Warchief Haland had been a tyrant, but they did not approve of a little foreign girl with the title. One of them entertained the idea that the specter of the King might slay her where she stood.

Captain Morten was full of conflicting indecision: he was loyal to her based upon her performance with a weapon but feared the King’s reaction. He was ready to strike her down should the King demand it but regretted that he might have to do so. The King she could not read at all.

“Never has the title of Warchief fallen to a girl and never to a foreigner. I do not like this turn of events, Kempenny.”

Devorah nodded, but her attention was on the spectral nature of the King. It was a kind of necromancy she was unfamiliar with. It was as though he were a ghost anchored to the bear fur, as most ghosts were anchored, but he did not thirst for life. She wondered if the fur cloak harbored the ghost of the bear.

“Captain Morten tells me that you petition for war against House Loreamer. Why would I approve of this action? It is House Kempenny I hate.”

Devorah leapt upon the opportunity. “No, Your Majesty. It is Erin Kempenny you hate. And I can give you Erin Kempenny.” She let him absorb that, for several moments before continuing. “As I understand it, my aunt promised herself to you but refused to take the marriage vows. That hardly seems fair.”

“Ha! You don't care for fair, girl. You've much of Erin in you.”

Devorah nodded. Clearly pretense would not work with King Haland. “Do you want her or not, Your Majesty?”

The King grumbled to himself, faint enough Devorah could not hear, his secret thoughts still unavailable to her. It was not like Father Vytal's shield, but rather like they were simply too far away. “You would truly surrender your own kinswoman for the chance to go to war?”

“I'm already at war, Your Majesty, and I want to win. You aren't the only one Erin Kempenny has treated badly. With her out of the way, I will command Kempenny's army in full. With soldiers from the Mountain Kingdom, House Loreamer will fall. It is within my right as Warchief to petition. Offering my aunt is added incentive.”

The Mountain King narrowed his eyes at her. “Your title may be fleeting, child.”

Devorah nodded. “It may at that, but I will use it to its utmost to achieve my goal. If you don't like it, you can try to take it from me. Captain Morten has considered taking it. If you gave the word he'd try split me tip to toes. But I'd kill him first.”

She heard Captain Morten's surprised thoughts and his fear. He had no doubt that she could kill him.

King Haland laughed. “Very well. But I warn you, we do not have soldiers, Kempenny. We have warriors. I do not think you know what you’re asking for, but I will grant it. Deliver Erin Kempenny to me, and you may take my warriors to war.”

• • •

Devorah pulled at the shadows. She remembered Sheperd Fort, outside of which the Kempenny army had encamped. It was not hard to see through the shadows to the night time encampment. It had shrunk since last she was there.

Devorah took a deep breath and pulled herself though the shadows, enduring the crushing pain as best she could. When she was on the other side, she was only a few steps from the large command tent. It was lit from within and voices were raised in argument. Colonel Lambert was waiting patiently to explain why they could not continue to support the far-flung forays Governor Kempenny demanded, due to lack of food. The person insisting so loudly was a captain Devorah barely remembered.

Without preamble, she entered the tent. The guards at either side of the entrance on the inside from the tent immediately noticed her arrival and prepared to bring their weapons to bear until they realized who she was. Though she was still clad in the dress suited to Taranaki, it bore the Kempenny crest and her rank. Besides, what other black-haired girl could walk so brazenly into the command tent. They both saluted. Devorah only paused to acknowledge them before striding further into the tent.

“Colonel Lambert.”

The Colonel looked up from the map he was studying while the captain continued to rail. His eyes widened, then he smiled. Ignoring the captain he came around the table and saluted before, in that sudden and unpredictable way he had, crushed her in an embrace.

“God’s Wounds, Scamp, I thought we were lost.”

“This is hardly an appropriate way to greet your commander,” Devorah said, her voice made small by the hug.

“I saluted first,” Colonel Lambert said, but he released her and stepped back to salute again.

Devorah returned the salute then turned to regard the map and ledgers. She scanned the papers while simultaneously scanning the secret thoughts of those in the tent. Colonel Lambert was hiding nothing, but the captain didn't want her to know about the direness of the situation. He hoped, at her arrival, that he could convince her to push his agenda, his true aim to decimate Kempenny's army in order to get back at Governor Kempenny for her poor management of the war.

“I've no use for traitors, captain. You may leave camp now and keep your life. Otherwise, I will take it from you.”

The captain sputtered a denial.

“This is your final warning,” Devorah said, preparing for violence.

“You've no right to come striding in here after months...”

Devorah turned to face the man. He was tall and thin and hadn't shaved properly in weeks but bore the stubble poorly. He wore a short sword and had one hand upon it, prepared to draw. He had watched her spar against many soldiers at once and knew of her ability. He was determined not to be caught off guard.

“Captain,” she said quietly, “you should have taken the opportunity I gave you.”

“What?” He leaned forward, trying to hear her quiet voice.

And Devorah struck. She drew, thrust the blade through his eye, and sheathed before he knew what happened. He was dead moments later, bleeding on the rugs of the command tent before he'd collapsed.

“You certainly get straight to the point, don't you General?” said Colonel Lambert.

Devorah looked at him, surprised he'd used her title. She cleared her throat. “Where have our men gone? The camp has shrunk.”

Colonel Lambert rubbed at his lined forehead. “Some are scattered across north Kempenny, harrying the Loreamer soldiers encamped at Pinefort. Loreamer's soldiers took it months ago. Others deserted after you...” Colonel Lambert shrugged.

“After I deserted,” Devorah finished for him. “And our supplies?”

“Diminished. Loreamer forces have been slowly taking the ports.”

Devorah nodded. She looked at the map and chose a port nearby. “What about this one?”

Colonel Lambert looked where she pointed. “Upton. Reports say it's still free, but the locals are cautious about supporting us. And, even if we did take it, I can't be certain we'll have supplies coming in. Most think the war is all but lost. They won't support us.”

“Colonel, prepare to move on Upton Port.”

Colonel Lambert saluted. “How large a force?”

“All of them. We must take the port. My alliance with the Mountain King will depend on having a secure harbor for his ships to put in.”

Colonel Lambert was genuinely surprised. “You've secured an alliance?”

Devorah nodded. “Almost. I must deliver payment first. Get the soldiers mobilized. I want you to leave at dawn.”

“Won't you be coming with us?”

“I’ll have to divide my time between the army and the Empire. I'm still in negotiations with the Council of Princesses.”

“You've become well-traveled, Scamp.”

“Also, I need you to locate a plumber, someone familiar with how indoor plumbing works.”

Colonel Lambert didn't question the peculiar order, just nodded. He opened his mouth to say something, then paused, she could tell there was something more he wanted to say.

“Out with it,” she demanded.

“The soldiers, they're morale is practically non-existent. The ones who've stayed are those who've nowhere else to go and those who bear fanatical loyalty to you. If you want the march on Upton Port to be successfully, you'll need to say a few words in that way that only you can.”

Devorah nodded.

• • •

She stood upon the stage, the same stage stained by the blood of Lieutenant Birkett, the same stage where she had been beaten. She watched while Colonel Lambert roused what was left of the army at the fortress. They came in ones and twos at first, converging in a ragged group, undisciplined. Most didn't believe she had returned and those who did were bitter about it. As the captain in the command tent had said, she'd been gone months. She'd abandoned them.

But soon what was left of the army came streaming to the foot of the stage. Those who had faith she'd return shouted when they saw her: they shouted for her, they shouted for Kempenny, they just shouted. And they began to arrange themselves into disciplined blocks. But still there remained an undercurrent of doubt, of anger.

And when they'd all arrived, Devorah stepped to the edge of the stage and raised her hands and all fell silent. But what to say? How could she justify her absence? How could she convince them to follow her against Loreamer, and the Church of Khulanty?

And she decided only the truth would do.

“I am sorry.”

Her words rippled through the crowd.

“Sorry?”

“She's sorry?”

“General Kempenny is apologizing to us?”

Devorah continued before the buzz died down.

“I left, and I didn't mean to return. I was disgusted with the motivations of this war. Governor Kempenny, my aunt, used you, me, us, as pawns for revenge because Sean Loreamer married someone else.”

Some knew this already, for some it was a revelation. But foremost among the secret thoughts she detected, was Erin Kempenny's. Her aunt, she knew suddenly, stood at the door of the fortress, unguarded, hidden in the shadows. She had meant to stride onto the stage and confront Devorah, but stopped when Devorah spoke the truth so baldly. Now she was afraid. Devorah held no pity for her.

“And in pursuing my own goals, I neglected my obligation to you: to lead you well, to protect you from carelessness, to guarantee your freedom. And that remains the lesser of my crimes, for, as some of you know, Frederick Vahramp is not dead, but undead, at my hand.”

This time it was fear that rippled through the crowd.

“I am not angry at those who fled. But I am proud of those of you who stayed. And, if you'll have me back, I will lead you to victory over House Loreamer and will shield you from the monster I created. I will end this war and protect the interests of the people of Kempenny. I will be a leader worthy of your trust.

“If you’ll have me, that is.”

She let the silence hang for far longer than was comfortable.

“I march to free Upton Port at sunrise. There we will meet allies from the Mountain Kingdom. Then we will march to the north, re-secure the border, and broker a peace. If you will march with me, thank you. If you will not, now is your chance to leave with impunity.”

She turned and went to the fortress where her aunt still stood in the shadows.

“You and I need to talk,” Devorah said, knowing her aunt could hear her. She went into the fortress, empty of guards and staff, and up the long, spiral stair to the Governor's rooms. They had not been cleaned in weeks and though her aunt would not live in filth, neither was she competent to tidy her own rooms. Devorah stood in the center of the Governor's library and turned to face her as she stood, hesitant in her own doorway.

“And what will you do with me, dear niece?”

“You don't seem mad to me,” Devorah said. “Father Vytal claimed you'd sunk into madness. I'm surprised he would lie.”

The Governor swallowed hard. “The Church of Khulanty is full of liars, haven't you been paying attention?” And there was an edge of panic to her. It might have been madness. The woman's thoughts were wild, unordered, not at all as Devorah remembered them. A crack in the Governor's careful facade. Though Devorah had been able to read her aunt since first coming to the fortress, now Erin Kempenny was an open book to her. All she had to do was nudge the Governor to the right page. There was really only one question the Governor could answer that Devorah cared about.

“Are you really my aunt?” Devorah asked.

“Yes,” she snapped. “Of course I am.”

But that wasn't all of it. Devorah could see secret thoughts the Governor could no longer suppress. She saw a dark, quiet nursery, she saw a sleeping old woman, she saw a child in a crib. And she knew from the Governor's thoughts that the child was the Heir of Khulanty, that the Governor had stolen the child and...

Devorah shook the confused thoughts from her mind. “What happened?” Devorah demanded. “You went to kidnap the Heir, and then what?”

“Did you know I was powered once?” Erin said. “I was a mage of words. All I had to do was find the right words, and I could do anything. I took you from your bed and brought you to my home. But something went wrong. Instead of nine months it was three years later, and my power was gone.”

The babble made no sense. A part of her wanted to continue the questioning, to demand a sensible answer, but she didn't think it would work. Perhaps Father Vytal had been right, the Governor was sinking into madness. It was time to go through with the next move. Devorah set her shoulders.

“What are you going to do?” Erin demanded, her facade cracking, a little more.

“I've made a deal with the Mountain King.”

The Governor was surprised, and a little hopeful. “An alliance? Are they going to support us militarily? How did you manage it?”

“Not us, no. Me. I managed it by promising the King you.”

The Governor stumbled back, her careful facade collapsed entirely. She was stopped by the wall behind her and she sank to the floor. “You... can't...”

“It's all part of the game,” Devorah said, and she advanced upon the woman. “’Every move in the game is important. Everything you do puts the game that much closer to its end, and you had better make certain that each choice is moving you that much closer to victory.’ That's what you taught me.”

Devorah held her hand out to her aunt. “You set me on this path, set me to playing this game. I intend to win it. You're just another piece to move.”

Erin Kempenny made a sound somewhere between a laugh and a sob.

Devorah grabbed her aunt's shoulder while pulling the shadows around her. In moments, she was standing in the shadowy corner of the hallway, just outside the Mountain Kingdom delegation’s suite. Her aunt gasped for breath. Devorah pounded on the door. She was quickly answered by a guardsman who was now familiar to her. He had answered the door armed, but he sheathed his weapon at the sight of her and nodded respectfully. Then he looked at the cringing Erin Kempenny and sneered.

“This is the woman the King pines for?”

Devorah met his statement with a flat look. “Do you disapprove of His Majesty’s choice?” she asked. “Shall we advise him to choose another?”

The guardsman swallowed hard at that and bowed low. “Forgive my offense, Warchief Kempenny.”

Devorah ignored the guard and looked at her aunt who trembled in the shadowy corner.

“Take me back,” Erin whispered.

“I will not. You were throwing men to their deaths. I’ll not allow it to continue. I intend to win. To secure peace. Now, stand up and present yourself to Captain Morten, or I shall have to make you.”

Devorah watched the secret thoughts of Erin Kempenny spin madly, bouncing off each other and fizzling to nothing before coalescing again, the chaotic patterns coming to full fruition from the cracked façade she’d seen only moments ago in Kempenny Province. But, several moments on, they slowed and ordered themselves until they were the careful thoughts she remembered, like the squares on a chess board, the shelves in a library, soldiers at attention. The former Governor took a deep breath and stood. She looked at Devorah like she’d never seen her before.

“Well, my dear, I can’t say I approve, but it is a masterful stroke.”

“Father Vytal was right. You have gone mad.”

Erin chuckled as she smoothed the front of her dress. “I have my moments, dear niece.” She looked at the guardsman in the doorway with contempt. “Am I to see Captain Morten, or are you going to bar my way?”

The guardsman was not blind to the similarities between this woman and his new Warchief. He got out of the way and closed the door behind them once both had entered. Captain Morten entered from an adjoining room. He nodded to Devorah and took in Erin Kempenny with a glance.

“His Majesty will be pleased,” he said to Devorah. “He said to tell you that he will begin mobilization as soon as he receives word of his payment.”

“How long will it take to get men to Upton Port. It’s a town on the eastern coast of Kempenny Province.”

Captain Morten nodded. “I know it. When I was a boy it was a major port of call. It should take about a week and a half.” Then he chuckled. “That’s ten or eleven days by our reckoning.

Devorah blinked. She’d never heard that the Mountain Kingdom counted weeks at shorter than ten days. But the peculiarity was of no moment.

“Then it’s time to get them moving. Kempenny forces are marching to free the port now. Let the King know.”

Captain Morten nodded then saluted, fist to chest. “Yes, sir.”

Devorah turned to leave, but was stopped by Erin’s hand on her shoulder. “It’s a heavy yoke. I’m not sorry to give it up. But I think it will crush you as it crushed me.”

Devorah brushed her aunt’s hand from her shoulder. “I fully expect I will not survive this conflict. But when I am crushed, it will be after I’ve won the game.”

• • •

When she stepped from the shadows of the fortress entryway, she was momentarily blinded by the sunrise. She’d been up all night. A quiet footstep caught her attention, and she whirled around. A young woman in the clothes of a servant was stopped mid-stride in the fortress entry hall. Her eyes shone with a purple light, unlike any eyes Devorah had ever seen before, but not unlike any she’d ever read about.

“You,” Devorah said sharply, “What are you doing here?”

The woman’s purple eyes went wide and she fled from the hallway. Devorah followed. Though dawn had broken, enough shadows remained within the halls of the fortress to speed Devorah’s chase. The woman had a significant head start, but Devorah caught up with her at the entrance to the kitchen. Devorah grabbed for her, the woman twisted awkwardly, her elbow clipped a pot handle on the bottom of a pile of pots.

Devorah winced as the kitchen, already in disarray, collapsed in a shower of dirty pots, broken crockery, and dry beans. The woman with purple eyes sprawled to the floor where she was struck by a falling pot. Devorah put her hand to her rapier’s hilt, prepared to take the woman prisoner, but paused. The prone woman looked little older than Devorah herself, and she’d done nothing wrong that Devorah knew of. There was little justification to have chased her other than that she had run, much less take her prisoner. And so, instead, she picked her way through the strewn kitchenware and helped the purple-eyed woman to stand.

“I’ve read about you of course,” Devorah said, remembering the histories in her aunt’s library at the manor house. Most historians had written off the existence of a purple-eyed woman present at the most important events in Khulanty’s history as unlikely at best.

The woman stretched her back and grunted. “As I have read of you, Shadow Knight. Am I to be your prisoner as I was your aunt’s?”

Devorah sighed and sort of shrugged. After everything she’d done and dealt with tonight, she was tired of forcing pawns around the field against their will. “You’re supposed to have done many great things, witnessed many great events. If you’re real that is. And if that’s true, you could be a great asset to me.”

“I’m afraid my role in those events mostly hasn’t happened yet. And those that have… I’m rarely any actual help. Your aunt…” and she shuddered.

“What about her?” Devorah demanded. “Did she hurt you?”

The woman shrugged and swallowed hard. Devorah lowered her watery shield, but the purple-eyed woman had her own, and Devorah could not read her secret thoughts.

“Come on. I’ll get you a horse. Where you go after that is none of my concern.”

The purple-eyed woman was appropriately wary, but she nodded.

The camp had been struck. A few permanent structures, the officers’ quarters and storage, were all that remained. Every tent was gone, packed onto wagons, horses, and men. In their place were wide swaths of packed earth of varying tones indicating what had been covered by tents or been foot paths or been training fields. Devorah lead the purple-eyed woman to a concentration of pack horses being loaded for the immanent march.

Devorah approached the man in charge of loading the beasts, a sergeant. He noticed her, saluted, but did not stop his work.

“What can I do for you, General?”

“A horse.”

The sergeant frowned. Horses were in short supply as it was and giving one away would mean redistributing the supplies that had been so carefully divided. But, when the General asked for a horse, she got a horse. He selected one, not the best, not the worst, and ordered it stripped of its packs.

Devorah turned to the purple-eyed woman. “Do you know how to ride?”

“Well enough.”

“Then you should get going.”

Devorah watched the woman mount and ride off, wondering if she’d made a mistake.