With that, he turned and strode out of the firelight.

From the Kormehri bivouac area, he went back to look in on Melody again. She'd been awake, or on the verge of it, because when he stepped in, her head turned, eyes open. "Hello, Macurdy," she murmured. "Where have you been?"

"Here, a few times. The last two you were asleep, and the first time you didn't know where you were or what had happened."

"Want to feel my lump?"

"Sure." He knelt, and his fingers touched her head. "Pretty good one."

She chuckled weakly.

"How's your headache?"

"Not bad. But when I got up to use my bucket, a little while ago, I was pretty dizzy."

"I had a Sister look at you. She said you'll be a lot better tomorrow, but you need to stay in bed a day or two more."

She looked thoughtful for a moment. "You know what's really good for someone in my condition?"

"I'm afraid to ask."

"Remember what I did for you after you got beaten up so badly?"

He nodded.

"If you'd do something like that for me…"

He bent and kissed her cheek. "Not now."

"When, then?"

"Sometime. Soon. If we get through this war alive."

"Do you mean it?"

Again he nodded.

"Will you marry me?" she asked.

He felt his head going up and down as if it had a will of its own.

"Kiss me," she said. "On the mouth. To make it real."

He did, softly, sweetly.

"I feel stronger already, Macurdy."

He stood up. "Go back to sleep, spear maiden."

Obediently she closed her eyes, and turning, he padded quietly from the room. Feeling like a wooden man, wondering how he could possibly have said what he had.

38: Lord Quaie

Cyncaidh rode erect but relaxed at the head of his staff, on a smooth-gaited stallion that would not have tolerated an ordinary rider. In front of him, the Emperor's elite 1st Cavalry Cohort filled the road almost to the top of the next rise. Two complete legions followed, twenty cohorts of cavalry and mounted infantry with their supply trains, a great cumbersome dragon extending for miles, its serpentine body integrated by well-drilled protocol and couriers on horseback.

He sniffed, and smiled ruefully. A morning like this should smell of wildflowers and meadow grass, but already the odors of horse urine and trampled manure dominated. At the rear of the column, the road would be nearly mired with it. If the breeze would just swing round to the east or west, instead of holding from the south… From the south. He wondered how yesterday's battlefield smelled, after a day of sunshine, warmth, and flies. Mearigher's casualty report, delivered by courier the day before had been bad enough, but to actually see the remnant of Mearigher's army with its hospital train this morning had been powerfully sobering.

It truly was astonishing that an effective southern army had been assembled from so many different nations. And by a farmer from Farside, with no previous experience of war or leadership in this lifetime.

A marsh hawk caught Cyncaidh's eye, soaring low over the meadow beside the road, single-minded, oblivious to the army. It slowed, and with blurred wingstrokes hovered a moment, then dropped into the tangle of grass and forbs, to fly up with a rodent in its claws. Nature too had its violence, he reminded himself, but seemingly little more than needed to eat and raise young. Only men and ylver fertilized their fields with blood from time to time. Their great challenge, laid on them by God, was to change, he had no doubt. Change, and lose their bloodiness; change by dint of growing wisdom. Meanwhile one did the best one could, dealing with the world as it was.

Ahead, a courier rode toward him against the direction of march, cantering his horse briskly along the road's edge. The rider, a sublieutenant, kept his pace almost until he'd reached Cyncaidh, then stopped, saluted, and turned his horse to ride alongside the general. "Sir!" he said. "The point's met a small force of southerners ahead, under a flag of truce. With a man who says he's Marshal Makurdi."

"Aha!" The voice was Quaie's, calling from behind him. "You'll have him in your hands, Cyncaidh! Don't waste the opportunity!"

The admonition irritated the commander, and half turning in the saddle, he glanced back. Disregarding his aura, the seventy-year-old Rapist of Ferny Cove looked like a handsome youth: tall, slender, impeccably tailored, and utterly hairless, with refined features. But his eyes invariably showed contempt, while the mouth was inclined to mock or smirk. Quaie had been against Paedhrig's orders to negotiate if possible, and had been taking it out on his chief counselor. May you be reborn as a maggot in your own carcass! Cyncaidh thought.

As commander, Cyncaidh could always stomp on him, but politically it would be unwise. Better to let the war erode his influence, already shrunken by Ferny Cove.

He glanced at Varia on his right. Her aura had receded and paled at the report, but only a little. "What's the ground like ahead?" he asked the sublieutenant.

"Much the same as here, General."

He sent the man cantering back up to the route leader with orders to stop for an indefinite break, then sent similar orders to the other cohorts. And thought his apologies to the farmers whose crops would be trampled by his camping army. "I'll have the headquarters tent set up," he told his staff. "We'll see what this Macurdy has to say. If he's come to negotiate, we may spend a day or two here."

He ignored Quaie's remark: "Why set up the tent? A sharpened stake in the hot sun would be more appropriate."

The tent was up before the southern commander arrived. If necessary he'd have had Macurdy delayed to get it done. It would seriously jeopardize negotiations if the man saw Varia. As it was, she could listen from behind the linen wall while watching through the spy hole, and he'd consult with her during breaks.

The large staff room had panels rolled up on two sides for ventilation, and Cyncaidh and his general staff lounged around a trestle table with a top of intricate parquetry. He wondered what Curtis Macurdy would think of it, or if he'd notice. Outside, a horse cantered up and stopped; a moment later the sublieutenant stepped inside and saluted.

"He's almost here, General."

Cyncaidh got to his feet, his staff following suit, Quaie sneering something about the disgrace of fawning on a criminal like that. You're our expert on disgrace, Cyncaidh thought, and led them outside. From there he could see the southern commander, a big man with big shoulders, on a big horse. With no spear maiden by him, nor any aide at all. His platoon was being guided to the pastured grove set aside to shelter them from the sun, leaving him alone with his ylvin escort. No doubt his men were less than happy with that, Cyncaidh told himself.

Macurdy dismounted, his movements easy, casually athletic. He wore neither byrnie nor helmet. His hair was short-bobbed, the color of wet sand, and as he neared, his eyes showed hazel. His hands, Cyncaidh thought, might be the largest he'd seen. His aura showed more than power and honesty; there was also what Cyncaidh read as purpose and logic, care and concern.

And inborn dominance. The ylver didn't have a specific classification of personality types, as expressed in auras, but he recognized the aura of a man born to command, and the strong aural fullness of one who did. He stopped in front of Cyncaidh. "My name is Macurdy," he said. "I'm the commander of the southern alliance."

Cyncaidh nodded gravely. "I am General Cyncaidh." He gestured at the tent. "Step inside and we'll talk."

They went in together, Cyncaidh's staff following. An orderly held a chair for Macurdy, as instructed. It would give Varia a view of him in profile, while avoiding any chance that he'd see an eye behind the spy hole. When everyone was seated, Cyncaidh asked, "Why have you come to us, Commander?"