He ran his finger against the ridge of a feather in the quiver beside him. He glowered at the floor, chin on fist. "You'll fall in love with the king."
She sat on the edge of the bed facing him, and grinned. "I couldn't fall in love with the king. He's weak-minded and he drinks too much wine."
He caught her eye. "And? I'm jealous-minded and I sleep with too many women."
Fire's smile grew. "Luckily for you, I loved you long before you became either of those things."
"But you don't love me as much as I love you," he said. "Which is what's made me this way."
This was harsh, coming from a friend she would lose her life for. And harsh that he would say such a thing right when she was about to leave for so long. She stood and turned her back to him. Love doesn't measure that way, she thought to him. And you may blame me for your feelings, but it isn't fair to blame me for how you've chosen to behave.
"I'm sorry," he said. "You're right. Forgive me, Fire."
And she forgave him again, easily, because she knew that his anger usually fizzled as quickly as it came, and behind it his heart was full to bursting. But she stopped at forgiveness. She could guess what Archer wanted, here in her bedroom before she departed, and she wasn't going to give it to him.
It had been easy once, taking Archer into her bed; not so long ago it had been simple. And then, somehow, the balance had tipped between them. The marriage proposals, the lovesickness. More and more, the simplest thing was to say no.
She would answer him gently. She turned to him and held out her hand. He stood and came to her.
"I must change into riding clothes and pull a few more things together," she said. "We'll say our goodbyes now. You must go down and tell the prince I'm coming."
He stared at his shoes and then into her face, understanding her. He tugged at her headscarf until it slid away and her hair fell around her shoulders. He collected her hair in one hand, bent his face to it, kissed it. He pulled Fire to him and kissed her neck and her mouth, so that her body was left wishing that her mind were not so stingy. Then he broke away and turned to the door, his face the picture of unhappiness.
Chapter Ten
She had been afraid the army would move too fast for her or that every one of the five thousand soldiers would have to slow down for her sake. And the army did ride fast above ground, when the land underfoot was smooth enough to allow it, but most of the time the pace was more moderate. It was partly the restrictions of tunnels and terrain and partly the objectives of an armed force, which by nature seeks out the very troubles that other travelling parties hope to avoid.
The First Branch was a wonder of organisation: a moving base divided into sections, divided again into small units that broke off periodically, sped to a gallop, disappeared into caves or up mountain paths, and reappeared some time later. Scout units rode fast ahead of them and patrol units to every side, and they sent subunits racing back sometimes to make reports, or in the case of trouble found, request support. Sometimes, the soldiers who returned were bloody and bruised, and Fire came to recognise the green tunics of the healer units that rushed to their aid.
Then there were the hunting units which moved in rotation, circling back now and then with their game. There were the supply units, which handled the pack horses and figured the inventories. The command units delivered messages from Brigan to the rest of the force. The archery units kept eyes open for animal and monster predators foolish enough to prey on the main column of riders. Fire's own guard was a unit, too. It created a barrier between her and the thousands as she rode, and assisted her with everything she needed, which at first consisted mainly of answers to her questions about why half the army seemed always to be coming or going.
"Is there a unit to keep track of all the other units?" she asked the leader of her guards, the hazel-eyed woman, whose name was Musa.
Musa laughed. Most of Fire's questions seemed to make Musa laugh. "The commander doesn't use one, Lady. He keeps track in his head. Watch the traffic around the standard-bearer – every unit that comes or goes reports first to the commander."
Fire had been watching the standard-bearer – and his horse – with considerable sympathy, actually, because he seemed to ride twice as far as most of the rest of the army. The standard-bearer's sole charge was to stay near the commander so that the commander could always be found; and the commander was forever doubling back, breaking off, bursting forward, depending, Fire assumed, on matters of great military import, whatever in the Dells that meant. The standard-bearer always turning circles with him, chosen for that duty, Fire supposed, because he was a fine horseman.
Then the prince and the standard-bearer came closer, and once again Fire corrected herself. A fine horsewoman.
"Musa, how many women are in the First Branch?"
"Some five hundred, Lady. Perhaps twenty-five hundred in all four branches and the auxiliaries together."
"Where are the auxiliaries when the rest of the army is patrolling? "
"In the forts and signal stations spread throughout the kingdom, Lady. Some of the soldiers manning those posts are women."
Twenty-five hundred women who had volunteered to live on a horse's back, and fight, and eat, dress, sleep in a mob of males. Why would a woman choose such a life? Were their natures wild and violent, as some of the men had already proven theirs to be?
When she and her entourage had first passed out of Trilling's woods onto the rocky flats where the army was stationed, there had been a single fight over Fire, short and brutal. Two men out of their minds at the sight of her and disagreeing on some point (her honour, their respective chances), enough for shoves, fists to the face, broken noses, blood. Brigan was down from his horse with three of Fire's guard before Fire had fully comprehended what was happening. And one crisp word from Brigan's mouth had ended it: "Enough."
Fire had kept her eyes on Small's shoulders, combing his mane with her fingers until a sense of remorse had trickled to her from the minds of both fighters. Then she'd allowed herself a surprised peek at their hanging heads, their doleful glances at Brigan, blood plopping from broken lips and noses onto the ground. They'd forgotten her. She'd sensed that clearly. In their shame before their commander, they'd forgotten all about her.
Unusual. Fire's eyes had flicked curiously to Brigan. His expression had been cool, his mind unreadable. He'd spoken to the fighters quietly, hadn't looked at her once.
Back onto their horses, and shortly thereafter word had come around from the command units that any soldier brawling over any matter relating to the Lady Fire would find himself out of the army and the army's favour, disarmed, discharged, and sent home. Fire gathered from the low whistles and high eyebrows among her guard that it was a harsh punishment for brawling.
She didn't know enough about armies to extrapolate. Did a harsh punishment make Brigan a harsh commander? Was harshness the same as cruelty? Was cruelty the source of Brigan's power over his soldiers?
And where was the hardship in discharge from a fighting force in a time of impending war? To Fire it sounded more like a reprieve.
Fire pictured Archer riding through his fields at day's end, stopping to talk with the farmers, laughing, cursing the stubborn rocky ground of the north, as he always did. Archer and Brocker sitting down to dinner without her.
When the army finally stopped for the night she insisted on currying her own horse. She leaned into Small and whispered to him, comforted herself with the feel of him, the only familiar heart in a sea of strangers.