Clara was an oddly comforting person for Fire to be with in these days. Pregnant, she was even more stunning than she had been before. Almost five months in, her hair was thicker and glossier, her skin glowing; an extra vitality fueled her usual determination. She was completely alive, which was painful sometimes for Fire to stand beside. But Clara was also angry at all the right things and fiercely honest. And she was carrying Archer's child in her body.
"Lord Brocker is also your child's grandfather," Fire said mildly. "And there are two grandmothers you needn't be ashamed of."
"And anyway," Clara said, "if we're to be judged by our parents and grandparents, then we all may as well impale ourselves upon jagged bits of rock."
Yes, Fire thought to herself grimly. That wasn't far from true.
When she was alone she couldn't avoid thoughts of home, memories. On the roof, visiting the mare, she fought off thinking of Small, who was far away in King's City, most certainly wondering why she had gone away and if she was ever coming back.
At night, when she struggled with sleep, Cansrel and Archer kept changing places in her nightmares. Cansrel, his throat torn apart, was suddenly Archer, staring at her just as balefully as Cansrel always had. Or sometimes she was luring Archer, rather than Cansrel, to his death, or luring them together, or sometimes Cansrel was killing Archer, or raping Archer's mother, and maybe Archer found him and killed him. Whatever happened, whichever dead man died again in her dreams, she woke to the same pitiless grief.
News came from the northern front that Brigan was sending Nash down to Fort Flood and Brocker and Roen would follow him.
Garan was indignant.
"I can understand sending Nash here to take his place," he said. "But why is he having done with his entire strategising team? He'll be sending us the Third and Fourth next, and taking Mydogg's army on all by himself."
"It must be becoming too dangerous there for anyone who isn't a soldier," Clara said.
"If it's dangerous, he should tell us."
"He has told us, Garan. What do you think he means when he says even in camp a night's rest is rare? Do you imagine Mydogg's soldiers are keeping ours out late with drinking games and dancing? And did you read the latest report? A soldier of the Third attacked his own company the other day, killed three of his fellow soldiers before he himself was killed. Mydogg had promised to pay a fortune to his family if he turned traitor."
Working in the healing room, Fire could not fail to learn the things that happened in battle and in war. And she understood that despite the torn-up bodies the medics brought in from the tunnels every day, despite the difficulty of supplying food to the southern camps and carrying the injured away and repairing weapons and armour, and despite the bonfires lit every night to burn the dead, the southern war was thought to be going well. Here at Fort Flood it was a matter of skirmishes on horseback and on foot, one group of soldiers trapping another in a cave, quick strikes and retreats. Gentian's soldiers, who were led by one of Mydogg's Pikkian captains, were disorganised. Brigan's, on the other hand, were finely trained to know their responsibilities in any given situation, even in the chaos of the tunnels. Brigan had left predicting it would be only a matter of weeks before they made some kind of significant breakthrough.
But on the northern front, the fighting took place on the open, flat terrain north of the city, where there was little advantage to cleverness of strategy. The ground and the visibility warranted full-out battle, all day until dark fell. Almost every battle ended with the royal side in retreat. They were fierce, Mydogg's men, and both Mydogg and Murgda were there with them; and the snow and ice were proving to be no friends to the horses. Too often the soldiers fought on their feet, and then it began to show that the King's Army was vastly outnumbered. Very slowly, Mydogg was advancing on the city.
And of course, the north was where Brigan had gone, because Brigan always went wherever things were going most badly. Fire supposed he needed to be there in order to give rousing speeches and lead the charge into the fray, or whatever it was commanders did in wartime. She resented his competence at something so tragic and senseless. She wished he, or somebody, would throw down his sword and say, "Enough! This is a silly way to decide who's in charge!" And it seemed to her, as the beds in the healing room filled and emptied and filled, that these battles didn't leave much to be in charge of. The kingdom was already broken, and this war was tearing the broken pieces smaller.
Cansrel would have liked it. Meaningless destruction was to his taste. The boy probably would've liked it too.
Archer would have reserved his judgment – reserved it from her, at least, knowing her scathing opinion. And whatever his opinion, he would have gone out and fought bravely for the Dells.
As Brigan and Nash were doing.
When Nash's front guard clattered through the gate, Fire was ashamed to find herself running up to the roof, stumbling, uncontrolled.
Beautiful horse, she cried out to her companion. Beautiful horse, I can't bear this. I can bear Archer and Cansrel if I must, but I cannot bear this too. Make him go away. Why must my friends be soldiers?
Some time later, when Nash came to the roof to find her, she didn't kneel, like her own guard and the roof guard did. She kept her back turned to Nash and her eyes on the horse, her shoulders hunched as if to protect herself from his presence.
"Lady Fire," he said.
Lord King. I mean no disrespect, but I beg you to go away.
"Certainly, Lady, if you wish it," he said mildly. "But first I've promised to deliver about a hundred messages from the northern front and the city – from my mother, your grandmother, Hanna, Brocker, and Mila, for starters."
Fire imagined a message from Brocker: I blame you for the death of my son. A message from Tess: You've ruined your beautiful hands with your carelessness, haven't you, Lady Granddaughter? A message from Hanna: You left me here alone.
Very well, she thought to Nash. Tell me your messages, if you must.
"Well," Nash said, somewhat bemused, "they send their love, of course. And their heartbreak over Archer, and their relief that you're alive. And Hanna specifically asked me to tell you that Blotchy is recovering. Lady – " He stopped. "Fire," he said. "Why will you talk to my sister and my brothers but not to me?"
She snapped at him. If Brigan said we talked he was being disingenuous.
Nash paused. "He didn't. I suppose I assumed. But surely you've been talking to Clara and Garan."
Clara and Garan aren't soldiers. They aren't going to die, she thought to him, realising as she conveyed it that this reasoning was flawed, for Garan could die of his illness, and Clara of childbirth. And Tess of old age, and Brocker and Roen of an attack on their travelling party, and Hanna could be thrown from a horse.
"Fire – "
Please, Nash, please. Don't make me talk about reasons, please, just let me be alone. Please!
He was stung by this. He turned to go. Then he stopped and turned back. "Just one more thing. Your horse is in the stables."
Fire looked across the rocks at the grey horse stamping her hooves at the snow, and didn't understand. She sent her confusion to Nash.
"Didn't you tell Brigan you wanted your horse?" he asked.