“Tell me about your G’deon,” said Clement. “I want to know about her. What does she look like? What has she said to you? Why isn’t she here with you, helping to fight your battles?”

His eyes opened, his weathered face creased into a baleful grin. “You fear the day that happens! And so you ought to! The land itself has been tainted by your presence, but she will not foul herself with Sainnite blood. She named me her champion. But do you think I am the only one? After this night, hundreds will rise up. Thousands!”

He paused to gasp for breath. Though the bleeding had been stopped, the pain must have been excruciating. Yet, despite agony and weakness, his words were chilling, terrible. The effect he had on his followers must have been profound.

Clement pulled herself together, considered what he had said, and asked quietly, “How many of your people did you hold back in the woods?”

“What difference does it make how many? They’re flying down the mountain now!” He uttered a raw laugh. “Oh, no, you’ll not keep this night a secret! All will be known. That we are heroes. And that you–” He glanced at her again. “You cannot silence stories. The land itself will know our names.”

Like Cadmar, the man only seemed able to make speeches. He was a figure, as Cadmar had become a figure.

He lay gasping, shivering. There were no blankets here, and the warmth of the fireplace did not travel far. At the far end of the hall, where the medic was cleansing and binding the last wounds, soldiers trailed in, checked on their comrades, ate a cold corncake or two, and exchanged muted accounts of what had happened. Clement heard no bragging; even hardened soldiers would find this night’s butchery difficult to be proud of.

“Willis,” she said. “Tell me about South Hill.”

He looked at her blankly.

“Surely, what happened there no longer matters, after so many years.”

He said, shallow‑breathed, “Who areyou?”

“I’m Clement, daughter of Gabian. I want to understand what is happening to us.” She leaned a bit forward, her stiff leather creaking. “There was a mysterious woman, a traitor, who came to South Hill. Tell me about what happened there, and I’ll tell the medic he can give you a pain draught.”

Some people when injured lose all their intelligence, but this was not one of them. He said, “She was one of yours. You know what happened.”

“I am being honest with you, one commander to another. We Sainnites knew nothing of her, or of her doings. This is the truth. At least tell me her name.”

“Her name? If you don’t know, why should I say it?”

“Did she havea name?”

He gave her the scornful look one madman gives another. “Everyone has a name!”

“Did she tell stories?”

“Stories?” His tone was blank. Was he concealing something, or was there nothing to conceal?

She sat back, and it occurred to her to undo some buckles so the leather would not keep digging into her aching ribs. “Was she a border woman?” She fumbled with the buckles.

Of course, he would not answer a single question. And there was no point in torturing him for the answer. He would simply die.

“Ashawala’i,” he mumbled.

His vague gaze sharpened. She realized she was staring; perhaps she had even turned pale. “Ashawala’i,” he said more firmly, apparently appreciating the effect this word had on her.

Hard to say who was in charge of this interrogation, hard to say which of them had the most power. “She claimed,”he added. “So she got herself into the company by playing on the commander’s sympathy. Because you Sainnites destroyed her people.”

Clement said, “So she was just pretendingto be a survivor of the Ashawala’i people.”

“She was a traitor. She admitted it. Telling secrets to a man in the garrison.”

“To what man? To that seer, Medric? It was he who turned traitor against us! It must have been because of her.”

The leader of Death‑and‑Life gave her a baffled look. “Then why did Mabin tell me to kill her?”

She stared at him, stunned and chilled. “Mabin knew of this woman?”

“It does not matter,” said the man. His eyes were glazing over.

No,Clement thought, it does not matter.Except that the Ashawala’i had been massacred because another seer had foreseen that a member of this distant, isolated tribe would cause the destruction of the Sainnites. And the shadow‑woman of South Hill and the shadow‑woman of the Lost G’deon story were linked by councilor Mabin. And a raven had dropped a book out of the sky.

“Lieutenant‑General, you are not injured?”

She was holding her head, she realized. The medic had come up to her, with his knives and his bone saw. The cauterizing irons were once again on the fire.

“It’s been a long night,” she said.

He snickered, apparently thinking she was making a pun. And then he said viciously, “Hell!”

She leapt up. The medic tore frantically at Willis’s tightly bound bandages, which were suddenly sodden. Blood pooled on the tabletop, and dripped to the stone floor. But Willis lay quiet, profoundly at rest. Even his fanatical heart had stopped beating.

Chapter Thirty‑One

From one exterior wall to the other, nothing interrupted the open space of the big building’s first floor. At both ends, hot fires crackled in stone fireplaces, but could not do more than lift the chill of so vast a space. As the whole host of Paladins came in, however, the space began to seem too small. They stripped off their winter gear, and soon a wall of pegs was hung with clothing, skis, and weapons. Garland, pushing his way through the convivial, loud‑spoken groups towards the kitchen, heard scattered words of conversation that mixed together like the ingredients for a soup.

“… when she took my hand …”

“… dizzy!”

“… what Mabin is saying to her now?”

“I never even felt like hesitating.”

“… how often do we have that confidence?”

“And I just want to know what…”

“… the first day of the first year of Karis G’deon?”

Garland found the kitchen, another grand space, crowded with a half dozen sweating cooks, who upon every surface were rolling and filling pastries, on every fire were turning massive chunks of roasting meats, and on a number of auxiliary stoves were stirring big pots of strong‑smelling soup. Garland had thought he was exhausted, but now his heart began to pound with excitement.

Someone grabbed him by the shoulder. “Who are you?”

“Tea for Karis?” he said. “I’m a cook,” he added.

The cook, a crabby‑looking woman with a wool cap on her head, pointed the way to hot water, then followed Garland suspiciously to the steaming kettle and watched as he unpacked Emil’s teapot from its box and measured out the tea. Abruptly, she asked, “You’re a cook? Will you help us out in here?”

“Yes, as soon as I can.”

“Is it true what they’re saying? That it’s really her, the Lost G’deon?”

“It’s true.”

“What’s going to happen now?”

“I don’t know. Making history isn’t much like following a recipe, I guess.”

“Well! Maybe if she gets something to eat!”

The cook hurried off to fill a tray with lovely crisp bits of filled pastry that had just come out of the oven, exactly as Garland would have done in her position. Yet if he had asked her if she thought that good food could make people wise, she would have laughed at the idea.

Karis had picked up and returned every discarded weapon to each Paladin. By the time she was finished, the sun had nearly sunk below the horizon. Now, as Garland edged his way through the crowded shearing room, the Long Night candle was being lit: a monstrous candle, red as Karis’s coat, set on a table in the middle of the room. As its wick sputtered into flame, the Paladins began to sing, a rather mysterious song full of great symbolism, that Garland vaguely remembered having heard every year. As the singers finished the last verse, the kegs were tapped, and the singing was obscured by cheers. Garland had safely transported his tea pot and tray to the door of the side room, where, he supposed, brokers and shepherds had conducted their negotiations during shearing time. Within, Karis, Emil, Norina and Medric had drawn sturdy wooden chairs up to the hearth, their sodden hats, gloves, and mufflers lay on the floor, and they held out cold‑whitened hands to be toasted by the flames. Karis’s frozen tears had finally thawed. Now, vivid red patches on her cheeks revealed where the wind had peeled the skin away.