“He told my mother she had no right, that it was his name she was risking. She said the Queen would never know, would never bother to find it out. She said a fortune was at stake, and he should not let his dignity cripple him. Hadn’t he brought you into our home? Hadn’t he married me off to a common soldier, like an innkeeper’s daughter? Father was so wroth. He will speak to your father. He said. He said…” Her voice trailed away and her touch turned to moonlight on my hands, and then a cloud covered even that. She was barely there.

“Epiny.” I sighed, and let go of our feeble contact.

I hovered, a mote in Soldier’s Boy’s awareness, a sort of Gernian conscience that he paid no heed to. I wanted to agonize over my soldier-son journal. I hated all I had written there, hated myself for being so stupid as to write it. Too late. What was shame to me now, a dead man, a Speck, a renegade mage against my own people? Too late to think of my good name. I had no name. What I did have was a tiny remnant of my stolen magic. Epiny had been my best hope. We’d been joined by the magic before and I had been certain I could walk into her dreams. If she hadn’t given in to the dark depression of the creeping magic, if she hadn’t taken the Gettys Tonic of laudanum and rum, I could have been certain of my warning being heeded. But she had. The magic had outwitted me again.

I thought I had strength enough for one more try. I would reach for Spink. I had never dream-walked to him, but I knew him well. He might dismiss Epiny’s words as a strange dream; if I touched him, mind to mind, he would know it was real. I knew he would have a hard time convincing the upper echelons of the military command at Gettys to heed his warning as it was; better not to have Epiny saying that the warning was based on her dream.

I summoned all I could recall of Spink, every facet of him, from the boyish and enthusiastic cadet he had been at the Academy to the weary and harassed lieutenant and husband he had become at Gettys. I reached hard for the moments of contact that we had shared in that otherworld we had walked when the Speck fever had taken us both. Back then, he had been more willing than I to accept the reality of that episode. I only hoped that if I could reach him, he would still be as open-minded.

Dream-walking to Spink was not like traversing terrain. I felt I was a needle plunged endlessly through folded bolts of fabric, trying to find a single thread. Trying to make this new contact was more draining than reaching Epiny had been. Epiny had always been more open to magic than the rest of us. But I found Spink, and with every bit of my remaining strength, I forced myself into his dream. It was a dreary place. He dreamed of digging a hole in stony earth. He was in the hole and had to throw the shovelfuls of rocky soil up over his head. Half the time, earth and gravel cascaded back down on him. He was in the bottom of the hole, trying to get his shovel point under a large stone, and then suddenly I was there with him. He didn’t flinch or start. Dreams adjust quickly to intruders. I found a shovel in my hands. Spink looked up, wiped gritty sweat from his face, and said, “You dug your hole and I dug mine. And here we are, stuck in what we’ve made of our lives.”

“Spink. Put your shovel aside and listen to me. We are in your dream, but what I’m going to say to you is real.”

I took a risk in telling him that we were in his dream. He looked at me, and I saw his eyes focus, and in the same instant, the dream around us began to disintegrate, watercolors lifting away from a painted card. I seized him by the shoulder and believed him there as hard as I could. I gripped his bony shoulders, felt the rocky soil under my feet, deliberately smelled the smells of soil and sweat. Spink stabilized but continued to gawk at me.

“Little time,” I said, even as I felt the magic running out. “Epiny had a dream, too. Make her tell you. Specks will attack Gettys late tomorrow night and try to burn everything. Spink, don’t forget this, don’t doubt it.” I was gripping his shoulders as tightly as I could, as if to make the contact more real. Inspired, I suddenly seized his hand and forced it to his face. I pressed hard, driving his nails into his cheek and tore down, scratching him. “The warning is real, real as pain. Take action. Extra guards, a night patrol, guns primed and ready, iron shot—”

I didn’t know at what point my pilfered magic ran out. I only knew that the Spink I was speaking to was suddenly emptiness. I blinked and he was gone and I was back inside Soldier’s Boy. He was sleeping heavily now, in the same deep, desperate sleep I’d sometimes taken when I dove after rest that had eluded me for most of the night. I thought it over and then pressed softly against his awareness, telling him how safe he was and that all was well. With every particle of my being, I willed him to sleep long and late.

In that, I was successful. By the time he awoke, half of the short winter day was spent. He opened his eyes to grayness and cold. It took him a few moments to realize where he was, and then he sat up with a shout. Not far away, Jodoli slept on. Some of the men were up and moving about, but most of the wakeful ones were huddled about the fires, talking quietly. At his shout, all heads turned to him, and some of the warriors stood up.

“Why was not I awakened!” he bellowed. The anger that filled him was more fueled than disarmed by the knowledge that it was unjust. “This force should have been on its feet, armed and ready to march, hours ago. This delay puts all our plans at risk!”

Jodoli was sitting up, rubbing his eyes. Firada was already in motion, gesturing at his feeders to hurry faster as they hastily dished up the warmed food and brought him hot tea poured from a steaming kettle. There was every indication that Jodoli’s feeders had been awake for quite some time, in order to have all things ready when the Great One awakened. He turned and saw that even Olikea, morose as she had been, was awake and dressed.

“Why did no one awaken me?” he demanded again, and I cringed for him at how childish he sounded. I think he sensed my disdain for him. He thrust his legs out from under the blankets and gestured angrily for his clothing to be brought to him. He was suddenly realizing how far he had wandered from the soldier’s path, and how telling that might be today. Impatiently he tugged his garments from his feeders’ grasps and put them on, grunting as he did so. He had to hold his breath to jerk his fur-lined boots up over his calves but he did so, and then stood. “We eat, we pack, and then we march. We have to be at the forest’s edge at the road’s end by dark. There, we will have to wait until full dark before we go into the town to attack. So eat and drink well now, and see that your water skins are filled. This will be the last hot meal you get before we join battle. Take a little food with you, but only what you can eat while moving. Get ready!”

I was pleased that they were getting off to such an uneven start, but tried to keep my satisfaction small and hidden. Even as I watched the cold and sometimes sullen warriors go about their preparation, I wondered how much of her dream Epiny would remember through a mind clouded with laudanum and hoped that Spink would heed the urgency of my message. I would have no way of knowing if my desperate warning had worked until the forces joined battle. Until then, I tried to keep the gnawing of my doubts to myself, even as I fed Soldier’s Boy uncertainty about the readiness of his troops. Over and over, I summoned up strong memories of how quickly the Academy cadets had fallen out before dawn each morning. I recalled for him the times when, as a boy, I’d watched the reinforcements for the eastern strongholds riding or marching past my father’s holdings. The men, even at the end of a long day’s march, had kept their lines straight and their heads up. He watched his warriors gather in straggling groups about their recently appointed leaders. There was no uniformity in how they were outfitted or supplied, no precision in how they gathered, and very little evidence of military discipline at all. All those elements were essential to a battle campaign as I knew of them, and they lacked them all. Their only strong asset was one that made my blood run cold. There was hatred and vengeance gleaming on every face, and the will not just to kill but to slaughter was evident in the harsh promises and cold wagers they placed with their fellows. There would be many deaths tonight. My mind wandered to the old god Orandula, and then as quickly I jerked my thoughts away from him. I did not want my attention to summon him, did not want him to construe the coming slaughter as an offer or bargain with him.