This hurdle of veracity having been vaulted finally, the sergeant said without further delay, “The woman is his mother. Reigning monarch in Moritia and possibly the culprit of the attack.”

His eyes went to her and he said coolly, “A cowardly move, madam, attacking Tabbaqera’s civilians. We won’t turn a blind eye, I assure you.”

Havec sighed. “Her guilt may be the least of our concerns. If we could get inside?”

The major ducked back into the tent, clearing the way. Havec followed him, Lieutenant Pannus on his heels, and there was a confused interval as several other officers arrived. It was only when the dust cleared and he found himself standing over a table covered in maps and piles of paper that he realized none of his companions had accompanied him. It had never crossed his mind that they might not consider it their place to take part in this interview. They might not even be allowed.

He had no role within their military, but it seemed as though his status entitled him to go essentially wherever he wanted to; in contrast, the others had jobs within the Scolate, humble ones that might be well below the pay grade that expected to rub shoulders with the likes of him. No one would accidentally lose track of his mother, but he felt a sick twist as he thought to worry he might never see Hot Priest again. There had been an opportunity there and perhaps it had passed.

“Avat, you were saying this act of aggression is the lesser concern,” the major began. “Compared to what?”

He glanced at the people around him, most of them decades older than him, watching him seriously. All of them wore the same uniform, but it was the only thing they shared. He saw green and hazel eyes, gray as well as brown, and they were all shapes and sizes. Skin darker than his, but some were ruddy or some bronze. Hair both straight and curly. He had known for as long as he could recall that the Empire had conquered a huge swath of land that had once belonged to independent peoples, but in all the time he lived there, he had been confined to a tiny space populated by a scant handful. This was the first time he had ever gotten to see a group culled from all corners standing together in one place, so that he could look at them and perceive for himself that many had become one.

He cleared his throat as he tried to figure out how to explain that his dead father was now playing host to the Wight of Winter, which would hurt them as a matter of course because winter was cruel and that was what it did. When the time came to explain why he had sent two unarmed sorcerers after the god and ridden the other way, he wished his companions had come along so they could aver that he had indeed been prevented. If anyone thought he was full of shit, they kept it to themselves, and he moved on. The weather was bound to be worse further north, and he warned them that, however justified their anger, riding into the teeth of a blizzard was committing suicide.

“But surely Kebbal can have no complaint with us continuing on,” one fellow closer to his age pointed out. He casts his eyes across the group. “Even if these sorcerers can come up with a plan, they must be in danger every step along the way, neck deep in enemy territory. Who will watch their backs?”

“The Avat is telling us we wouldn’t make it,” an older woman said curtly. “We’ll die a mile into the country, before they even know we’re there.”

The youth’s eyes blazed like he took issue with this. Others frowned, looking dubious. “I sent them to my uncle,” Havec pointed out. “They would have gotten to Callon long before I reached you. By now, they should be indoors. Inside a fortified building surrounded by my people’s biggest garrison.”

“You’re sure you can trust the man?” Major Cimmuman asked.

“Not beyond a shadow of a doubt, but my parents speak nothing but ill of him. At this point, that’s looking like a pretty solid vote of confidence.” Several people smiled. “Anyway, he’s not a fool. This isn’t the outcome anyone wanted and it’s every bit as bad a turn for them as it is for us. I can’t speak to tomorrow, but today our interests align.”

“You want us to just sit here?” that young hothead asked, hotly.

“I want you to ride north and save my friend. I want you to keep my people from being wiped out by my parents’ folly. If you try, none of you will live long enough to make an attempt. I think I know more about blizzards and gods of winter than you, but I’ve given you my thoughts, I guess you’ll do with them what you will.”

Giving the major a nod, he quit the tent. He had been moving a little faster than he needed to, fueled by the maddening engine of his own impotence, and almost ran headlong into someone as he ducked outside. It was Hot Priest, idling out in the snow as if awaiting him. “Hi,” Havic said cleverly. He had thought the chance to get to know this man extinct, and although that had been disappointing, it had been safe. Now the man was back, it reopened the possibility Havec would say something embarrassing. Freak out the first time he leaned in for a kiss and punch him in the face, even burst into tears.

Farait made no attempt to pass the encounter off as an accident. “I didn’t argue when they took your mother into custody. I figured you would be glad to have her off your hands.”

He nodded gratefully.

His companion gestured and set off walking, Havec falling in beside him. “I found a place for us. Sometimes it can be a bit of a scramble in a situation like this, but when I told people it was you who was hungry and needed a place to sleep, they miraculously rediscovered their competence.”

“Does that bother you?”

“Why would it?” He nodded to the camp around them, already noticeably darker and less active than it had been when they got here half an hour ago. “All of this works because it’s exquisitely organized, everyone with a job, everyone clear on what that is. Not a spoon or arrow but has its custodian. Where that gets frustrating is asking people to do something out of the ordinary. That’s when you get everyone standing around pointing at everyone else, because they don’t want to be the one getting cursed out by their superior officer for being short a spoon. Thanks to you,” he mimed dusting off his hands.

It came as an incredible relief to arrive at their particular patch of soil to find Hib tossing blankets into a small tent. Havec had forgotten about this boy, but his presence felt like a godsend. The three of them gulped bowls of stew while sitting in the tent’s mouth. No one spoke, and soon they were pulling off their boots and crawling into their narrow abode. There was only just space for the three of them to lie down, but Havec had spent six years in luxurious misery hating every minute of it. Being permitted to suffer through inconvenience felt like a triumph.

He was still too keyed-up to rest and stared at the canvas ceiling above, heart running at a gallop as he worried about the girl. Hib fell asleep pretty quickly, and it was as if Hot Priest had been waiting for this; the instant the cadences of Hib’s breathing slowed, he rolled onto his side. Slinging an arm around Havec’s waist, he said quietly. “I’ve been thinking.”

He grunted.

“It was wrong of me to look into your memories. Your friend was right to call me on it. We aren’t supposed to do that unless invited to, it was a terrible violation of your privacy.”

He had kind of liked the idea that someone should know precisely who he was and how he’d gotten there, and without his having to explain. He couldn’t stand the thought of admitting it.

“I told you I was exactly the right boyfriend to help you readjust, but this was self-serving and dishonest. What I’m going to give you is exactly what you got from the last man: smothering obsession.”

His stomach gave a sick lurch of disappointment, but it crossed his mind that Farait’s arm didn’t seem to agree with his mouth: it was still embracing him.

“You need a chance to take a breath. Have a bit of time to yourself, to stretch out and relax out from under other people’s wants. I don’t see how you can do that if you have me following you around, convinced that you’re my destiny.”

The man never continued, but Havec could feel the weight of his eyes on the side of his face and came to the conclusion that a response was expected of him. His opinion had never been solicited, but he was evidently supposed to have a ready reply to being dumped before anything interesting even happened. “It’s funny,” he said finally, and his voice sounded weird, “because you’re telling me you’re just like Xar, and a part of me wants to laugh at you. But aren’t you? Here you are, deciding what’s best for me like I don’t get to have a say.”

He heard Farait’s breath catch, saw him jerk back. A lengthy silence followed, while he squinted at the side of Havec’s face and Havec struggled not to twitch nervously. He never did learn how the man might have responded: voices raised in alarm beyond the tent’s flimsy walls. The first time someone shouted, he paid it little mind, but then the sentries were calling out from all sides. Not just on the northern edge of camp whence the border lay, but from the east and west. They didn’t just sound confused, they sounded afraid. He sat up.

Farait sat up beside him, and the arm around him tightened before releasing him quite suddenly, as if the man had realized what he was doing. Havec ignored him, scrambling for the foot of the tent, already reaching for his boots. He crammed his feet in, fumbled about before one groping hand landed on his swords, flung himself into the night without donning his coat. He made for the nearest boundary of their camp, which ended up being the western face.

When he got there, it was all too easy to perceive what had gone awry.

A band of droghos that had to be hundreds strong had encircled them. There they stood, luminous as snow, all the spookier for their silence. Havec had been certain they posed no threat; his people’s legends said they were only dangerous to fools, servants to an evil master rather than evil in themselves. He had been taught that they would only kill those reckless enough to invite them to, and nowhere in his knowledge of the droghos could he find an explanation for their belligerent presence around this camp.

***

They were just finishing their tea when one of Jonet’s soldiers appeared at the door with a message for him. Their conversation was quiet and they were speaking their own tongue, but whatever had arisen, it was easily dealt with. After a few short words, he dismissed the man and returned to his seat.

As he settled himself, he told them unexpectedly, “Someone else come to speak with me. Given the messengers, it seems likely their warning is the same as yours.”

It was only a minute before the warrior showed the newcomers in, a man in his prime with his white hair yellowing, shoulders still unbowed, beard making an impressive cascade all the way to his waist, and a woman Amril’s age who was the most beautiful woman Qanath had ever seen. Both of them were wrapped in heavy layers of simple woolens in soft shades of grey or brown, but necklaces of beasts’ teeth were stacked thickly around their throats, and each wore an antlered crown upon the brow.

Havec’s uncle didn’t translate the conversation that ensued, but Qanath saw him gesture more than once to them. The newcomers were grave. She would have said theirs were the demeanors of professionals come to deliver bad news to lay people who weren’t mostly going to understand them.

“Ara?” Amril prompted in an undertone.

The shyin seemed to be only mildly interested in them and cast them a fleeting glance. “They remind me of the funny, dirty people in the cave, except less fun. Power bleeds from them,” he spun his fingers around each other vertically like a cyclone, “waiting to come when called.”

Qanath knew nothing about Havec’s people’s magic. “They’re different from me or him?”

Arandgwail turned a startled look on her. “Your power is organized in perfect little shapes.” He gestured as if he were stacking blocks. “Like my maker, everything is in its proper place.”

“They’re sorcerers, then?” his master prompted.

The shyin just blinked at him, as if it didn’t understand what this meant.

There was no time to pursue the subject: the conversation on the other side of the room had ceased and all three of the Moritians were looking at them. The older, antlered individual said something, narrowed eyes on Arandgwail. Havec’s uncle answered him briefly before saying in Tabbaqeran, “They wish to warn me that your companion isn’t the man he appears to be. They cannot tell me what he is instead.”

“On the contrary, he’s a person,” Amril corrected calmly. “You might say he’s my child, but I made him with sorcery.”

It came as an unpleasant surprise when the people moved further into the room and took seats before the fire. Jonet seemed to sense their unease. “Morloth and Nediyya are shamans. They came to warn me that this weather is unnatural. It seemed to me their input might be useful.”

It didn’t feel as if there was any choice but to bow their heads. Maybe, if they could have brought his beloved long-lost nephew to him, they could have set the terms and refused to collaborate with more savage foreigners meddling with powers they didn’t comprehend. As it was, this man was listening to them on sufferance.

She didn’t have to like it, though. She didn’t trust these people or want them here. Especially the younger one, who was taking her outer garments off now in response to the fire’s heat, revealing her lavish curves.