Soldier’s Boy had stood before him, his mouth filled with ashes. He could not deny even one of Jodoli’s statements.

Kinrove had smiled. There was sadness in his smile but also satisfaction. “You and Dasie were so certain that you knew a better way than my dance. What have you done to us? How many more dancers must I take now from the People to try to keep our ancestor trees safe?” He had looked at Jodoli then, and spoken only to him, dismissing Soldier’s Boy as a mage without wisdom. “I must leave you here, Jodoli, to bring our warriors home as well as you can. For I must go quickly now to my dancers, to add what strength I can to their work, and to prepare another summons to add dancers to my ranks. The fury of the intruders will give them some shield from my magic. If I do not block and quail them now, they will break through my barriers and ravage the ancestor trees simply to spite us. And they may hunt those who remain on the wrong side of the mountains, even to following our tracks here to our secret pass. I must go, and see if I can undo a little of the damage these two impetuous youngsters have done to the People.”

And, as simply as that, Kinrove had resumed his mantle of power and authority. The Greatest of the Great had turned and left them, quick-walking himself and a few of his key people away. In a moment, they had vanished, some taken in midtask. Jodoli hadn’t looked at Soldier’s Boy. Firada had come to stand at his shoulder, her eyes hard, as her Great One said, “I have much work to do here. Choose the healer you wish and I’ll help you quick-walk him back to Dasie. I will do what I can for the people here. But beyond that, I will have no extra strength to help you.” He turned his back on Soldier’s Boy and walked away.

Just as Soldier’s Boy thought that nothing could plunge him more deeply into despair, Olikea spoke from behind him. “So. We have failed. And I have lost my son forever to Kinrove’s dance.” He did not turn to face her. I felt his shoulders sag beneath the burden of her words. She came closer to him and he waited for her fury. But after a time, she touched his shoulder lightly and offered in a deadened voice, “I will make food for you. Before you have to go back.”

One word. “We.” Despite the sadness in her voice, despite her obvious resignation to his failure, she had said “we.” It was the tiniest speck of comfort he could imagine, but it was the only bit of comfort he had been offered. Tears stung his eyes. It woke a deeper shame in him, and added a more personal price to his failure. Despite his hunger, cold, weariness, and despair, it woke a spark of determination in him. He felt a resolve form in himself. If he failed in all other things, he would not fail in this.

I do not know if Soldier’s Boy was aware of me rummaging through his memories or if the moment came back to him on its own. “I will do what I must,” he said softly. He spoke as a man who fastens his courage to an idea, determined he will follow it through. “What are you planning?” I asked him, but he didn’t see fit to answer me. Instead, head down to the cold wind, he walked on. The dark forest rippled past us in the stuttering pace of his quick-walk. I could feel the magic gush from him with every step he took, like blood leaping from a nicked artery. He did not have much reserve left. I think he heard my thought.

“I’ll get us there,” he said doggedly. One of his men glanced back at his muttered comment, but said nothing.

Night was deep when we reached the pass. The camp we had made in the first sheltered section was nearly deserted. A fire burned to welcome us, and Olikea had been keeping soup hot over it. The moment we arrived, a dozen of Dasie’s feeders and guards converged on her. They had their own fire burning, and a bed of pine boughs and furs awaiting her, along with all sorts of savory foods. Soldier’s Boy watched them bear her away and felt rebuked by how they snatched her away from his stewardship. Obviously, they felt he had failed her; now that they had her back, they wanted nothing to do with him.

He bowed his head and turned to his own fire and Olikea who waited for him. She had built a pallet of boughs and blankets for him, not as elaborate as that prepared for Dasie, but more than adequate. She helped him to remove some of his outer garments and offered him soft warm slippers in place of the ice-crusted boots she pulled from his feet. She had warmed water for him to wash his face and hands, and a soft cloth for him to dry them. That such simple comforts could bring so great a relief! Silently, her face grave, she motioned him to sit down while she served the food. He was surprised to see both Jodoli and Firada seated there as well. “I thought you would have gone home,” he said brusquely to them.

Jodoli’s response was grave. “I thought you might need help to quick-walk Dasie and her feeders home. The last time I saw you, you seemed very tired.”

He was. Too tired to hold on to his anger. He sighed in resignation. “In truth, I would welcome your help,” he said simply.

Jodoli said, “In the morning, then.” And for a time, there were few other words as Olikea served all of them the soup she had kept warm for him. It was a good soup, thick and rich with meat and mushrooms. With every sip of it, Soldier’s Boy felt warmth and strength returning to his body. He glanced over at Dasie’s larger fire. Her feeders still clustered around her, bees tending their queen. Despite having her restored to them, they made a low hum that was anxious rather than comforted.

Dasie had scarcely spoken a word to him since they had met after the battle. Her feeders had told him several times that she had retreated to another place to avoid the pain of her injury. But even the removal of the iron from her leg had not summoned her back. He had seen the injury. The ball had hit the bone, shattering it, and then wedged amid the broken pieces. The healer who had removed it had taken out the iron, picked out small bone fragments, cleaned it, and bound the wound closed. The healer had not approved of Soldier’s Boy’s tourniquet, but had been glad to see that Dasie reacted when he pricked her toes.

“Now that the iron is out, she will begin to heal herself,” one of her guards had declared confidently. Soldier’s Boy was not so sure of that. He thought that her retreat into herself might not be solely because of her wound. The injury to her spirit might be more severe than that to her leg. He had heard tales of young soldiers who never recovered fully from their first sight of battle. From the little her guards had told him, their firing of the town and slaughtering of the residents as they fled had been “successful,” if that was a word to apply to such a task. Dasie had been active and enthusiastic in the setting of the fires, and had herself slain an innkeeper and his three grown sons when they had tumbled from their beds and come outside in their nightshirts to fight the flames.

But the guard had also spoken of a woman who threw an infant from an upstairs window in an effort to save her before she, nightgown in flames, leapt to her death. The guard had chased down two little boys who held hands as they fled barefoot through the streets. He had spoken with relish of his task, reliving that brief satiation of his hatred, and Soldier’s Boy had agreed with him that he had done exactly what had needed to be done. But he wondered now if Dasie had truly understood what her task would be and what she would witness when she had ridden down on Gettys. Specks were not by nature or culture a folk of violent confrontations. Even within their own villages and kin-clans, blows seldom settled arguments. He wondered if his plan had pushed her beyond her will to save her people. I felt little sympathy for her. She had looked on what her hatred had prompted. Good. Let her realize it.

“There was no other solution,” Soldier’s Boy said to me. “The Gernians forced us to it. We had tried everything else we could think of to make them go away or at least respect our territory. We had to do it.”