The GodSon's Change of Plans
      I thought it was nostalgia that made me pack my armor instead of casting it off. Now I know better. I had just finished dressing after my bath when a runner knocked on my door.
      "Mistress Commander, the Mistress General wants your presence in her office."
      Mistress General Casandre Godkin of the Salt Bluffs had been my host since my assignment to Fort Endgame to heal and await retirement after Phendallia's fall. She had never been given to evening chats. Perplexed, I left my chamber and walked the battlements to the northern tower. The night had a blue-violet cast, and with all three moons up in a clear sky the merlons shone a rosy silver. A warm breeze presaged spring and swept my fine hair off my shoulders, tickling my wings. It was a fine, fine night, until I stepped into Casandre's room.
      The Mistress General hovered behind a desk, overlooking several maps and emitting a palpable air of tension. She had never elucidated her bloodlines to me, though to be named Godkin she must be the product of the interbreeding of at least ten species, as I was. In appearance, she was mostly mammalian, leaning toward genet or marten with rounded ears and a striped tail.
      "Mistress General, you wanted to see me?" I asked.
      "Yes," she said, curtly. "Angharad Godkin, I am hereby reassigning you to replace the provincial governor of the newly pacified province of Shraeven, on orders of the GodSon."
      My beak dropped open in shock. Any soldier in the GodSon's army can retire . . . unless they're on active duty.
      Casandre sighed and rubbed her eyes. "Sit, Angharad."
      I refused. "I'm retiring tomorrow."
      "Not anymore," she said. "I'm sorry, Angharad, truly, but the GodSon himself sent the orders. Governor Chordwain is growing too ill to properly handle Shraeven. You're the only one who can replace him."
      "This is--" I stopped myself from saying 'insane' and opted for, "ill-advised. I lost most of my cavalry unit in Phendallia, including its captain--"
      "--their replacement is on its way to Nadeir," Casandre interrupted.
      "--I have no experience in governance," I continued, and hurried on before she could stop me again, "my unit is exhausted and under-supplied . . . Blood of the gods, General, the plainsmen even slaughtered half my support staff!"
      "All that can be overcome," Casandre said. Despite her firm voice I detected a sympathetic crimp to her brows. "I'm sorry, Angharad. The GodSon has authorized me to fulfill as many of your requests as possible, but your re-assignment is not up for discussion. You knew the terms when you signed with the army, and you must abide by them."
      I dipped my head, struggling with anger, horror, resignation. Finally, I said, "Requests?"
      Casandre nodded. "Men. Supplies. Whatever you need."
      An open invitation. I'd never been offered anything I wanted to get a job done before. I supposed I should be glad.
      Readers vote for Angharad to ask for a soldier who survived Shraeven's pacification, re-outfitting of her companies, and a map-maker.

Faith in your Superiors
      It is apparent to me that if I want to come out of this assignment intact, foremost of all my needs is information. I lean over the desk and say, "I want a map. One that was drawn by someone who's actually seen the terrain. And I want to talk to someone fresh out of Shraeven."
      "Easily done," Casandre says.
      "I want my entire company re-outfitted. This new cavalry unit included," I say. "I want more soldiers. And I need a new support staff."
      "Naturally, naturally," Casandre says.
      "I want money in case of contingencies," I say.
      "Of course."
      "And a base of operations."
      The mostly-genet spreads her hands and says, "You can choose any city or fort in the province . . . or all of them!"
      I lean back, mantling my wings. The Mistress General is being unaccountably helpful. It makes me nervous. I have been leading soldiers since I turned 22, and if there's one thing I've learned it's that the role of Supply is to keep as much money and equipment out of the hands of the soldiers as possible. I go with my instinct and say, finally, "And I want it all now."
      Casandre shakes her head. "That I can't do," she says. "Shraeven can't wait . . . we need you to join your company at Nadeir and get your new support staff together immediately. We'll have post-riders on the fastest beasts delivering your requests as soon as we're done with them, but we need your companies on the move in two weeks."
      Two weeks! I barely keep my ears from flattening. "Is there something I should know about the condition of Shraeven?"
      Casandre smiles and shrugs. "It's simply uncivilized, that's all. No different from most new provinces."
      A chill lifts the short fur along my back and fluffs my lowest feathers. "Uncivilized" is a code-word for "still fighting our rule." I've spent many a month in a tent fighting guerilla wars against "uncivilized" people. "This sounds like a convenient recipe for failure."
      "Not at all," Casandre says. "It's just a difficult assignment."
      "Difficult!" Now I know I'm right. My requests may actually make it out to meet me, or they might conveniently never appear. I know nothing about the political importance of Shraeven, but I have to find out, and soon. "I'd like a copy of your orders for my requests tonight," I say. "I'm leaving as soon as I can get a horse."
      Try as I may, I can't see any discomfort in Casandre as she says, "You'll have them in half an hour."
      Are they planning to sacrifice me? Or is this simply a gamble for them, a roll of the painted bones that they'll win whether I succeed or fail?
      I take my leave of the Mistress General. The battlements no longer seem so friendly. Leaning on a merlon, I squint at the horizon . . . west, the direction of Shraeven. Fort Endgame is perched in a mountain pass; abutted by two sheer stone cliffs, it has a narrow but unimpeded view of the long rolling hills to the western sea. That's where I'm going.
      The dark, the seeming presentation of an inevitable path, remind me that I have not yet selected a spouse, have not yet chosen bloodlines for a child and had that child. I suddenly wonder if this is the campaign that will kill me.
      Nadeir is a major fort and supply depot. It's only two days north of here, but if I sent a message home I could still probably get a scrip for enough money to re-outfit my company myself. It would require three-quarters of my savings, but what will my savings be worth if I don't survive Shraeven? And yet, if I do pay to re-outfit the company now, the army won't pay to do it later. Casandre promised it would be done, just not immediately.
      If I do send for a scrip, the bird has to leave before I do, tonight. I need to decide now.
      Readers vote (barely) for Angharad not to send the bird.

Nadeir
      I have to believe the Godson wants me to succeed in Shraeven. I have to believe he's not going to send us into an "uncivilized" province without proper supplies. Otherwise . . . otherwise, I will have to contemplate possibilities too unpleasant for words. I don't want to believe I gave 34 years of my life to someone who will throw me away.
      I don't send the bird.

The Cavalry Captain
      Duty puts paid to exhaustion. "Where is Cavalry?"
      "Quartered as expected. The captain's in the corner chamber," Gavan says, accepting the reins of the beast as I hand them to him. I pull my saddlebags off and let him lead the mount away.
      Traditionally Cavalry stays in the barracks adjacent to the stables in any major fort. Going into the mounted troop is a calling; no one would force a person to work with beasts unless he was comfortable with them, and few people are. It's too striking a reminder that we are only a few bloodlines removed from beasthood ourselves. Though it's strict policy not to train mounts that might have resulted from the union of devolved people, sometimes a beast has more intelligence in its eyes than can easily be accounted for.
      People who go into Cavalry are odd. I'm not sure what to expect of the captain, other than eccentricity. And apparently arrogance, to be agitating Supply on behalf of the company in lieu of its commander.
      I'm too tired to outfit myself fully; being disheveled is an honored army tradition for officers, anyway. But I do stop in a spare chamber long enough to wash my face and don my ivory corselet, and when I pin my slate blue cloak back on it's with the spiral-and-sword of the GodSon's authority.
      My route to the corner chamber takes me through the stables. The mounts are somnolent, but a quick inspection shows only glossy coats and healthy hides, shining eyes and well-oiled tack. At least the man takes good care of his creatures. Feeling only a little better and still far too exhausted for this, I stride the rest of the way to the captain's chamber, knock smartly, and enter without being invited.
      My first impression is of more than one person, so before I even look at the captain I say, "I'd like to speak to you alone, please."
      "Of course." A voice like butter and cinnamon, deep with a hint of husky warmth. My bones melt. I don't stagger because by the gods I am the Mistress Commander of this company and I will not stagger, but . . . I know that voice. As the people stream around me, leaving us alone, I look directly at her and my heart wobbles.
      Silfie. My new cavalry captain is Silfie. Silfie, who warmed my bedroll as an only half-grown young woman, when she was 21 and I was 30. Silfie, who'd fit to me like a piece I hadn't known was gone from me, like the last bloodline before godhead. Silfie, whose voice was a caress only a little less sensual than her fingers.
      Silfia Fiveblood of the Dale, who'd broken my heart when she'd allowed her family to dictate whether she should dally in a non-productive union instead of wedding and bedding someone who would produce the child Sixblood of the Dale.
      If the years had been cruel to her, I could have stood before her with more aplomb. But she has grown into her lush, strong body and invested it with eighteen years of character, insight and wit. I can see it shining in her copper eyes as she meets my gaze and quirks that smile that still has power to move me.
      She takes my limp hands in hers and presses the side of her muzzle against them. Her breath falls hot and moist on the bare flesh of my wrist. "Angharad . . . I've been waiting for you."
      I'm not sure what overwhelms me more, the shock of seeing her or the shock that my feelings are still so strong. Taking care of her attitude is the last thing on my mind, and it needs to be the first. I should have come better prepared. I should have slept. I've done nothing to ready myself for this, and I'm not, I'm not. There's been no one since Silfie. I thought it was because I'd been busy...
      ...not because I still care.
      Readers vote that Angharad face Silfie and find out why she's agitating Supply.

Silfie, Or How the Professional Becomes the Personal
      I think my heart is failing. I'm so intent on it that I don't even notice Silfie drawing me by my hands to the table. The complicated scent of fruit and wood draws my attention to the wine she's pouring into a glass for me.
      If I don't speak the business, the business will never get spoken. "Silfia, are you trying to alienate Supply, or do you have some other motive for badgering them?"
      Her chocolate-colored ears flip backward . . . she even blushes. But somehow this embarrassment surfaces without nervousness, as if she's examining her own behavior from a distance. I don't remember this maturity in my lover of 18 years ago. "I guess it does look bad, doesn't it? I didn't mean to make it seem as if I was in charge of the company." She sighs and pours herself a glass. "I'm sorry. It's just that we're new-come from the Shraeven border and our equipment is in shambles."
      "The Shraeven border?" I sit up.
      Silfie's ears sag. "That's significant, isn't it? Don't tell me we're going to have anything to do with Shraeven . . . those people are insane."
      "Insane how?" I ask.
      The vixen covers her face with her hands, rubs her brows. I remember that gesture in a younger woman with headaches that made her eyes throb. I remember rubbing her shoulders, and the soft hisses she made in pleasure-pain. "Shraeven," she says, "is an impossible province because it has so many ethnicities with such extremely different religions and customs that no one has been able to unite them long enough to convince them all they've been conquered. The soldiers' rumor is that Chordwain aged before his time trying to keep everyone happy and failing."
      "Oh, huzzah," I murmur. I leave my wine glass behind, stand and turn away from her. My wings need room to move. They rustle when I'm agitated.
      "Angharad?" Silfie asks.
      "Shraeven is my new province," I say. "I've been appointed the replacement governor."
      "Gods," Silfie says. I hear the chair moving and then her arms are snaking around my waist and I can feel her head pressing against my back. I stiffen in surprise. "Are they trying to get rid of you or do they think you're the only person who can do the job? Do you know?"
      "I don't," I say curtly. I swallow, then say, "I need you to stop bothering Supply. I'll get what we need out of them for you. The appearance of solidarity right now is far more important than what your efforts could accomplish alone."
      "Of course," she says. "And it's no appearance. I'll follow you anywhere."
      Anywhere but home to the Sunblood Cliffs. Anywhere but to the Dale, where her parents gave her their marching orders. The soft warmth of her embrace suddenly reminds me of all I've missed and bitter anger overwhelms me.
      Readers vote for Angharad to tread softly with Silfie instead of lashing out at her.

Mongrels
      "Silfie," I begin, then sigh and stop. With gentle hands I undo the laced fingers that keep her pressed against me. "Not now."
      "Later then," she says, and there's a twinkle in her eye when I glance at her past my shoulder.
      "Not later," I say, though I want to laugh with her. "Maybe not at all."
      Her ears flip sideways . . . not dismay, but I've put her off her guard.
      "You left me," I remind her.
      "I didn't want to," she says.
      "You didn't write," I say.
      She shrugs. "Neither did you."
      "It's been eighteen years," I say.
      She nods. "Time is wasting." Her smile now isn't the cocky thing I expect, but sad. She brushes my arm lightly before stepping away. "I understand."
      I mistrust her easy acceptance of this. But even more than that I mislike the sorrow in her eyes. I've missed something. This isn't the time, though. "There will be a briefing tomorrow afternoon. I'll send someone by for you."
      "I'll be with my people," she says.
      I nod and let myself out. I leave the barracks, the stables . . . don't let myself think at all about Silfia Fiveblood of the Dale. My heart can pound itself to pieces in my body, but right now I have a company to outfit, one that's swollen by at least two units. I head for Supply after detouring to raid my saddlebags for Casandre's papers.
      Nadeir is fed by two separate major roads, the Rind and the Sunkin's Way. The Rind runs the length of the original border of the Godkindred Kingdom. The Way bisects the kingdom, passing through the capital on the way to the opposite border, and travels (as one might expect) from east to west. Thus, the warehouses in Nadeir are cavernous in size and filled top to bottom with a soldier's treasures . . . and fronted by a single office staffed by aggressive skinflints who can smell distress from sixty paces. When I enter this office, the person at the desk scowls at me. He's mostly canid, so his scowl shows off quite a few teeth. Some of them are so ridiculously sharp I wonder if he's had them filed, or if his father somehow got him on a shark.
      These are unbecoming thoughts. I dip my head and say, "I am Mistress Commander Angharad Godkin of the Sunblood Cliffs--"
      "--and you've come to bother us for supplies," the clerk says, ears flattening. "We were told to expect you. Do you have papers for us?"
      I hand them over. He scans them and says, "All in order. We'll do our best to fulfill any of your requests."
      Thank you, Casandre.
      "We're not sure we can give you the specialized equipment Cavalry's been requesting, though."
      "Specialized equipment?" I ask, startled.
      Somehow the clerk manages to look even sourer. "For the mongrels."
      Mongrels! "I see," I say. "I'll talk with Cavalry about it. I'll have my requests on your desk tomorrow afternoon."
      "Right, Mistress Commander."
      Outside, I stop to regroup, torn between surprise and dread. The army wasn't supposed to recruit mongrels: dimwits trapped by the accident of bloodline and pure-breeding into a shape neither humanoid nor totally animal. And yet, sometimes it does, particularly when it feels it needs to fill the ranks with expendable soldiers. A cavalry captain has to specifically agree to the addition of these not-quite-people for them to be assigned. Was Shraeven so bad Silfie agreed to these creatures to protect the lives of the rest of her men? Or is there some other reason?
      Readers vote for Angharad to go to bed and deal with it in the morning.

Family
      In my absence someone has brought my saddlebags to a proper chamber and dressed the bunk. I change into the sleeveless blouse and soft open-weave pants I use for sleeping and ease onto the blankets. My bones sink; my limbs immediately become too heavy to lift. I don't remember passing into sleep, but it's a quick passage.
      Violent pain shocks me awake. I leap from the cot, tangled in my own sheets and clumsy with the intensity of it: someone has pulled one of my blood feathers, and the ache in my right covert shelf is like a needle. I can smell blood. When my eyes focus, it's on a tail vanishing through the door I definitely didn't leave open.
      I give chase. An intruder? A spy? An angry soldier? This is Nadeir! These things shouldn't happen here! It's full dark, with one of the moon's down and the other two behind stringy clouds. The camp is otherwise silent. I can see my attacker, hunched and sprinting. He leads me past Cavalry and in a sudden turn dashes up the stables and into the barracks. I have just enough time to wonder where my assailant is going when he bursts into Silfie's chambers.
      "Captaincaptainsaveme!"
      I skid into Silfie's chamber and gag as an elbow slams against my throat and my back smashes against the wall. There's a short sword up under my beak. A sleep-mussed Silfie has her entire body pressed into mine, trapping me.
      "SILFIA!" I shout. "Silfie, it's ME!"
      "Angharad!"
      Behind us both my assailant is wailing, a wordless rise and fall of fear and misery.
      Silfie lets go of me and turns to the creature. She squats in front of him and says, "You're safe, Bobwhite, you're safe. No one's going to hurt you."
      The mongrel--for it can be nothing else, not standing two feet when on its haunches--whimpers, then tentatively offers Silfie my blood feather. "I found something different," it whispers.
      "So you did," Silfie says. "But this is a good different. That is Angharad Godkin, our Mistress Commander. She is part of our family. You must look for differences for her as well as for me."
      "Sure? Sure, captain?"
      Silfie nods with great deliberation, never breaking eye contact with the mongrel. "I am sure." She offers the tip of the feather. "Smell. This is the Mistress Commander's smell. She is family."
      The mongrel sniffs, licks the tip of my feather. I shudder.
      "Family," the mongrel says.
      "Family," Silfie agrees. "No go back to your post, Bobwhite. You did well to find the difference tonight."
      "Back to post," Bobwhite agrees, both ears straightening. "Yes, captain, back to post." It lowered itself to all fours and scampered to the door, slowing down only to look at me with round eyes before slinking out.
      I step away from the wall with more questions than I know how to prioritize, and a wave of nausea runs through my body. The wing I'm now missing a feather from was also bent backwards. Is it broken? There are too many questions. Must stay awake--
      Readers vote that Angharad needs medical attention immediately!

In and Out of Consciousness
      Before I can even wobble, Silfie has a shoulder under my arm. She helps me to her bunk and pulls it away from the wall with a foot before lowering me onto it. I have enough room to spread both wings, which prompts my eyes to water. Time seems to waver. Surely there's only a moment between her leaving me there and the arrival of a physician. I have trouble focusing on him, but his expression is grim. From a distance, I hear Silfie arguing with him.
      "What do you mean, you've never treated wings? Yes, I know winged Godkindred are rare. No, I don't think that's an excuse. You're the fort physician. You're supposed to learn these things. No! Don't touch her! Send me someone who knows what they're doing!"
      I lose some time around this point. At least, I must, because between one breath and the next, there's a different person running a gentle hand down my wing arm.
      Not hand. Paw.
      "Silfia," I rouse myself to say, "what is this?"
      "This is my company's doctor," Silfie says. "He handles all our injuries. He can handle yours."
      I squint at this creature. Unlike Bobwhite, this mongrel is large . . . as large as me, and several times bulkier. His body is a giant mountain lion's. He has a beak, like me.
      He has wings.
      But his hands are huge, pawlike, with pads on the palms and claws at the tips, and they're missing a joint at the ends, making his hands look all thumbs. I can't imagine allowing someone like him to touch me. I'm about to say so when my body takes my choices away. I pass out completely.
      When I wake, my wing is in as comfortable a bandage as can be expected, and the aching hole where my blood feather used to sit is now simply numb. Silfie is sitting on a stool next to me.
      "What time is it?" I croak.
      "It's only been an hour," Silfie says. "We have a painkiller steeped if you want it."
      "Did . . . the creature...?"
      "Yes, the "creature" fixed you," Silfie says. "Branden happens to be a skilled chirugeon." She sighs and rubs her forehead. "Angharad, I know your first instinct is not to treat them like people--it wasn't mine. But I wouldn't have survived Shraeven without them. Besides, you need to get used to them anyway."
      "Why's that?" I ask, trying to sit up.
      "Because the border religions believe that what we're doing is wrong," Silfie says. "That happiness is not achieved by interbreeding to be closer to godhead . . . but by breeding true until we're all reduced to four-footed animals, mindless and free. The people on the border are only barely people in some places, and expecting them to act like we do will only get you hurt." She grimaces. "It got me hurt, and badly."
      I am stunned--beyond stunned. Aghast! I have sought the gods with all my will, as have all my fellows... to think that there are religions that deify the rutting mindlessness of beasts!
      Yet through a mind clouded with pain and horror, I can still be astonished by this sudden windfall. I hadn't truly expected to have someone in the company with knowledge of Shraeven, much less a captain who led her own campaigns there. My company needs a second, since my last second (the Cavalry captain again!) fell at Klen Valley. Surely I can't do worse than someone with battle experience on the Shraeven border?
      Readers vote that Angharad needs to probe Silfie for more information before making that decision.

Phoenixes on Silk
      "Exactly how much experience have you had with Shraeven?" I ask. I stop trying to sit up when I realize my shirt is gone. The mongrel must have removed it while treating my wing, which now feels strained instead of broken. Wing injuries always seem to feel worse than they are. "Were you just on the border, or did you conduct any maneuvers inside?"
      "A few," Silfie said. "Not enough to call myself expert by any means, but enough to hold the border, and enough to realize that fighting the Shraevenaese is like swimming up a waterfall. Though the borders tend to accrete people who believe in this animal cult, there are plenty of people who don't hold with pure-breeding. When you're fighting all animalistic forces, they react on instinct, with viciousness and bloodthirst. When you're fighting against people, they have all your cunning and cleverness. But worst of the two is when you're fighting a regiment of mongrels under the direction of a person. It's why I accepted a mongrel unit myself and became so intimate with them."
      "You have a map?" I asked.
      "Of Shraeven? Definitely, yes, and copied several times in case something happened to the one I had."
      "What about these other religions?" I asked. "Are they similar to ours?"
      "Some of them are close enough. Others..." Silfie shook her head. "The attitudes differ wildly on how to treat mongrels and beasts, who is Godkin, what kind of bloodlines you need to attain divinity." She ran a light hand over the leading edge of my hale wing. "There's at least one cult that worships the winged."
      "Perfection," I murmur. "Just what I need. A following."
      "Don't scoff," Silfie says. Her copper eyes are sober. "Many of the religions in Shraeven breed fanatics, some exclusively. It's another reason why taming them's been so hard. When a large part of the population would rather die than make peace..." She shakes her head. "You might become glad of local supporters, no matter how slavish, or how misguided."
      I am silent for a time with my unpleasant thoughts on the matter.
      "We need to get out of Nadeir," I say at last. "Properly supplied and trained. Tomorrow evening I want to inspect the entire company . . . after the briefing. The fort is going to supply us with most of what we need, if I read the Supply clerk correctly, but I'm not sure who we're going to get to outfit your--" I swallow the word 'mongrels'--"special unit. We need to choose an insertion point to give us enough time to train as a company. We need--"
      "--to sleep, so you can conduct all this business tomorrow without falling flat on your cheek," Silfie says. "You should be able to walk back to your quarters."
      "My shirt would help," I say wryly.
      Silfie hunts around on the floor and comes up with my nightshirt, which is dotted with blood from my absent feather and torn where Silfie's short sword came too close. "Do you always wake up ready for battle?" I ask, examining the cut.
      "Since Shraeven?" Silfie's body is taut. "I sleep with a sword under my pillow."
      I glance at her, unsettled, then return my attention to dressing. "Turn your back, will you?"
      "You haven't got anything I haven't seen in the mirror," she says.
      "I noticed," I say dryly. "Put on a robe."
      She rolls her eyes and goes through her own chest. While she does, I dress awkwardly, wincing whenever a stray movement pulls at muscles I hadn't known were strained. When I look at her again she's in a teal robe of eye-stoppingly beautiful silk, embroidered with phoenixes. It does not escape me, while staring at this expensive and beautiful concoction, that the phoenixes might remind some of my own wings, my coloring.
      "One of the few good things about Shraeven," Silfie says. "Their clothing is colorful... and cheap." She hands me a rolled-up map. "For your perusal, as long as you promise you'll go to bed at a reasonable hour."
      "I'll go to bed when I go to bed, and not before," I say, but with a touch of a smile. I don't remember Silfie being this solicitous of my health. Of course, I do remember being a lot more limber and snapping back from injury faster. "I'll see you in the afternoon... barring another mishap."
      "Of course," she says. Her voice is quite neutral.
      On the way back to my chamber I consider. Silfie does know more about Shraeven than I thought. She would make a good second . . . particularly since she seems willing to bow to my authority.
      Now readers vote for Silfie to be Angharad's Second.

Segregation
      "Shraeven!" My second infantry captain, Oweir Threeblood from the Salt Caves, looks decidedly pale in the ears. He, Gavan and Colblain Sixblood of the Snowflower Vale are gathered around the table, along with Silfie, looking at the map I've just unrolled for their perusal.
      "Shraeven," I say. "I need to get to the capital, and from there my task is to soften the province enough for a bloodline principle to mince down the trade roads in complete safety. You'll remain there long enough to see me to that goal, and then you can decide whether to accept a permanent posting or rotate out."
      They're good, my captains. They've seen battle conditions horrific enough to bring up their breakfasts . . . but I know very well what they're thinking. Many men would face a day's punishing fight before they'd choose to relocate to a foreign land. Colblain, as a noble without issue, couldn't even afford to make that choice. It was debatable whether I could, myself, but I go where the Godson directs. I have made this my life and now I must live with that decision.
      "But Nadeir will re-outfit us completely for this?" Gavan ask.
      I nod. Relief softens their faces. Continuing, I point at the map. "I've narrowed our entry points to two roads . . . the Mountain Sun Rising, here, through the God's Mercy Mountains, and the Road of the Raven's Flight. The latter is the most direct way in; we'll arrive in less than a month if we make no stops along the way. The former is a hard road, but once we clear the mountains we'll make good time." I tapped the Mountain Sun Rising's squiggle. "The reason I'm considering this is that we have three new units, two cavalry and one infantry. If we need time to train together, climbing the mountain road will give it to us, and in a place not as densely populated. Tell me--do we need the time?"
      In unison, without hesitation, all three infantry captains say, "Yes." Since the three rarely agreed on anything, I sit back and flick an ear forward, inviting more information.
      "It's Donal," Oweir says, looking uncomfortable in the extreme. "We just don't know how to work with him--"
      "Who?" I ask.
      The door crashes open, expelling an unhappy page and a man who almost runs into the table. My first glance suggests wolf ears, ram's horns, a coyote's muzzle, the spots of an ocelot, the stripes of a zebra.
      "By the yellow eggs of the blue-headed bull!" he exclaims, "I am late! I'm sorry, Mistress Commander." He gathers himself with energy and clumsiness, banging a hand against the table. "Donal Blacksmith, fourth infantry captain. Pleasure to meet you."
      "Blacksmith!" I say. "That's... Neshanti?"
      "Oops! Sorry, ma'am. Yes, ma'am. I've been told I should introduce myself as Donal Godkin of some-such place, but I keep forgetting. My unit is in fact from Aneshet." He looks proud. "We're almost all volunteers."
      Gods above and below. The Godson has assigned me a unit of conscripts to fill my ranks. Aneshet was the first province the Godkindred Kingdom annexed hundreds of years ago, and for the most part they act as a peaceful, if backward, extension of the kingdom. At least now I know why all my captains are so adamant about extra training.
      "Have a seat, Donal," I say and add wryly, "Try to be on time next time."
      Flustered, he sits. "Yes, ma'am."
      "So we have three new units. Have you been training together?"
      Again, an uncomfortable look. Silfie looks faintly irritated, but her voice is controlled when she says, "Everyone but my special unit."
      Distaste, contempt, disgust from the infantry, except for Donal. Great. My foot soldiers are avoiding the mongrels.
      Readers vote to have Donal's unit train with the mongrels to improve the company cohesion.

Complications in the Ranks
      "We can't leave the special unit out of the training," I say. "Or do you really want their capabilities to surprise you in the middle of something?"
      "Are we really expecting pitched fights, Mistress?" Gavan asks. "I thought Shraeven was mostly pacified."
      "Mostly pacified but not peaceful," I say. "We have to be prepared for anything." I nod toward Silfie. "Silfia has been on the Shraeven border and will provide us with information later... but I want to make this clear: I don't want us going into this as anything less than the best company in the Godson's Army. Am I understood?"
      Nods all around.
      "Donal, I'd like your unit to pair off with the people in the special unit for training. Once your men and Silfie's have some idea of each others' capabilities, I want to run some wargames against the rest of the company."
      "Yes, ma'am," Donal says. "I guess that means I should get some official weapons, right?"
      I stare at him. Is he joking? No, he's earnest, almost puppy-dog earnest. "What do you mean, official weapons?"
      "Well, my folks aren't used to swords, so they've been using what they know. Pitchforks. Scythes. Knives. Axes. That sort of thing. We've got a couple of swords lying 'round, but to be quite honest with you, ma'am, no one wants to use the things."
      "Not used to swords as in your men's training is rusty, or not used to swords as in they've never used them?"
      Donal rubs the back of his neck, his wolfish ears turning bright red. "Well, ma'am," he says sheepishly with a long pause. "Umm, the latter, I'm afraid."
      Readers vote to allow Donal's unit to keep their weapons, but also to train with the rest of the company's as well.

An Advance Against My Chance for Love
      "Everyone in this company needs to know how to at least hold a sword without slicing themselves up," I say. "Oweir, get your people together with Donal's and give them some rudimentary training."
      "So we're to abandon our current weapons?" Donal asks.
      I shake my head. "Colblain, go with Donal to Supply and introduce him to the wonders of non-standard military issue, please." I smile at Donal. "You'd be surprised how many weapons evolved from farming equipment. I'm sure your men will recognize them once they have a chance to hold them in a hand. Now, let's discuss training. . . . "
      Which we do, and far more productively than anything else we've done thus far. We plan the next two weeks in Nadeir, sketch the wargames, and discuss training on the road. A couple of hours later I'm satisfied that we can make this work; even Donal is useful, once he stops tripping over his own tongue.
      "Make sure you have your supply requests to me by the end of the day tomorrow," I say once I'm satisfied with our progress. "And I want a Presentation of Arms and Men in the courtyard in two hours. That will be all. Silfia -- attend me a moment."
      The rest of my captains leave, already arguing vociferously (if in good spirits) about how best to handle their assignments. Silfie hangs back, her hands gripping the back of the chair she so lately filled.
      Once we're alone, I say, "I'd like you to be my second."
      Silfie's ears dip. "Are you--I'd be honored, Mistress."
      One of my brows lifts. "You were about to say something else."
      "I just . . . are you sure this is wise?"
      "Why wouldn't it be?" I ask. "You have intimate knowledge of Shraeven that the rest of us don't. I'll need that expertise."
      She licks her nose with a petite pink tongue, then says, "May I speak freely?"
      I nod, suddenly wary.
      "What are your policies on fraternization?" She looks at me directly, her copper eyes unblinking.
      I'm not sure whether to be offended at her seeming assumption that we're going to wind up sharing a bedroll again, or pleased that she thinks it important enough to bring up before accepting her assignment. But it's not a happy question. There is no official policy on fraternization in the Godkindred's Army; each officer is supposed to come up with a policy on her own. Unofficially, we're supposed to encourage good matches, matches that will move us closer to the goal of seeing gods in our time, and discourage matches that are unproductive or would lead to the wrong kind of children. In the past, I've always held with that unofficial policy.
      And yet I look back on that now and realize I've lost all of my women soldiers to "good" pregnancies . . . an excellent thing for the Kingdom and our course toward divinity, but a less than excellent outcome for me as a commander. I'd been thinking of discouraging fraternization altogether: fall in love, if you must, but don't get pregnant on my watch.
      How self-serving of me that I'm even rethinking this. I've served under commanders who turned their companies into high dramas, endangering all our lives . . . and under commanders who were dangerously unstable until they took a bedmate. What's always mattered has been the opinion of the soldiers. In that first case, resentment eroded morale and performance until we broke apart, but in the second we were secretly trying to make the commander's liaisons easier to schedule.
      Readers decide that Angharad should resume the unofficial policy of looking the other way for good unions and interfering in the bad.

Starting off on the Right Foot with My Second
      "We're going into a foreign province . . . maybe even to stay," I say. "If people choose to find comfort in one another's company, that's their business, as long as they don't get pregnant on campaign." I consider. "It might even be useful, once we get to the capital, for people to find native spouses."
      "That sounds workable," Silfie says, "though you should be warned... not all the cultures in Shraeven believe in marriage the way we do."
      "What is that supposed to mean?" I ask, startled.
      "Some people have chain marriages or triads . . . or no family units at all."
      I shudder. "I can't imagine that working."
      Silfie wrinkles her nose. "I guarantee that once you see it, you still won't be able to believe it."
      "Comforting," I say. "So, will you accept the post?"
      "Yes, Mistress," she says.
      Readers vote for Angharad to allow Silfie to call her by her first name.

My Company Presents
      "Angharad will do in private," I say to Silfie, "given how closely we'll be working together."
      She lowers her lashes in what is a distinctly coquettish look, which clashes utterly with the cleanly professional tone of her voice as she says, "All right, then . . . Angharad."
      What have I done?

Dangerous Territory
      After I dismiss the company, I stop Donal and Silfie.
      "You have scouts in your units," I say--less a question and more a statement.
      Silfie nods. Donal says, "Yes'm."
      "I'd like you to pick three of the best and pair them, and send them out of Nadeir to scout the road to the mountains," I say. Glancing at Donal, I ask, "Will that be a problem?"
      He shakes his head, which makes his ears flop, just a little. My ability to take him seriously wobbles with them. "Truth be known, Mistress, most of my farmers use mongrels for farmhands. Er, farmpaws, as it were. They're used to 'em."
      "Good," I say. Better than good, even. "Have them on their way by tomorrow afternoon."
      "Yes'm!" Donal says and looks at Silfie. "I'll stop by in the morning, then?"
      Silfie says, "I'll expect you."
      Donal nods, snaps me a salute sharp enough to make his ears flop again, and then marches off after his people. I watch him go, perplexed. Are all my pre-conceptions going to interfere with my judgments on this campaign? Gods help me!
      "So," Silfie says. She hasn't walked away. "Will you take dinner with me, Mistress?"
      Readers are tied between dinner alone with Silfie or with Silfie and the rest of the commanders.

Oh, Love....
      "Dinner sounds pleasant," I say.
      "I'll see you in a hour, then," Silfie says.
      I am certainly gone mad.

Gods on Earth
      I can't look at her and not forgive her. I can't look at her and fail to see the girl I loved then, and the woman I'm so intrigued by now. I don't know her--as her last words prove to me by the shock they leave in their wake.
      "You sound embittered," I say. "Don't you want to see the gods on earth, as I do?"
      Silfie looks away, and in profile I see both the softness of the creamy fur beneath her eye... and the hollow that age and experience has carved there. "Oh, I did. That was before I played my part in it." She smiles without mirth. "We shall see how you feel about bringing divinity into our world when it is your womb that is roughly filled and your body that is used for months to feed and shape another life, at the expense of your own health and will."
      "Surely being a mother isn't so horrible!" I say, ears flattening.
      "You have no idea what being a mother is like," Silfie says. "I don't blame you for that. I didn't either. I knew intellectually it involved a suitable man, but I've come to the conclusion that I don't like men much."
      "So you've joined the army," I say numbly.
      She shrugs. "Rejoined it, yes."
      "But if you're not in the army for the glory of the Godkindred, what keeps you here?"
      "My pension," Silfie says. "Forthcoming on my retirement. Barring a slap in the face like the one you just received for your years of honorable service."
      I twitch at this reminder of my own anger with the Godson's decision. "I do his will. That's what I signed up to do."
      "Even if he proves that the blood of gods isn't enough to make a wise leader?" she asks. When I stare at her in horror, she flips her ears back. "Don't tell me you haven't been watching him. Don't tell me you haven't noticed that he's nowhere near the leader the Twins were. He is everyone else. He's building the bridge to Heaven on the backs of the numbered bloods, and only the Godkin will cross. Don't tell me that's what you want?"
      According to readers, Angharad thought she did, but now she's not so sure.

Friendly Sparring
      "So perhaps the Godson hasn't yet grown into his role," I say, side-stepping the question. "He's young, he'll learn."
      Silfie sips her wine and studies me with her copper-orange eyes. After a moment, she says, "Let's hope so."
      Something in my tone must have warned Silfie that I'm not ready for this discussion, or to name her as she would name me, beloved yet. We spend the rest of dinner talking business, and when I leave I'm unscathed, but also unfulfilled.
      Life wants more risks than I'm taking, but I have been cautious all my life. It's no use changing now.

An Unfortunate Kinship with Crows
      "Are you sure you know what you're doing?" I ask, with just a hint of humor.
      "Ah, no, ma'am!" Donal says smartly. "But I've been working at it and I'd like to try." He grins. "Be gentle with me, ma'am."
      I salute him and then settle into a crouch. "And have you ever had an enemy that was gentle with you, Donal?"
      " 'Fraid I haven't had the pleasure," Donal said. "But I keep hoping." And then he too drops into a crouch, watching me with alert enthusiasm.
      He looks so very young.
      I test him with our first exchanges and find him very quick, but with almost no control over the strength of his blows. Sometimes his blade smacks against mine so hard I have to roll with it; other times it clatters weakly against the metal and slides off. He doesn't have the wrist strength that I have come to expect in a swordsman. I don't disarm or humiliate him. I don't have to. He's so obviously not in my league that I don't need to prove anything.
      Which is why I hit the ground so surprised my wings luff out like sails in a strong wind. I couldn't even remember what he'd done. His hand had flashed to the side of my head, and then--"What did you do?"
      "I pulled at one of your feathers," Donal said sheepishly. He offered me a hand up. "The crows at home seem to get awfully distracted when you do that, so I figured I'd try."
      He'd gotten past my guard and tugged on a feather? And that had given him the ability to dump me onto my nearly-divine backside in the dirt?
      Readers vote that Angharad applaud Donal's ingenuity and get him to repeat the performance so she can learn to guard against it.

Learning from Experience; Learning from Books
      "Congratulations Donal," I say with a wince as I get to my feet, "that's the first time that one's been used on me."
      "Sweet circle and square!" Donal exclaims with that childlike, wide-eyed startlement. "I'm sorry ma'am!"
      "Are you kidding?" I ask, brushing off my pants, "put up your guard, mister. We're going to do that again until it doesn't work." I grin.
      "Seriously?" Donal asks. "You're not upset with me, then?"
      "Of course not," I say. "Better my butt than my knees."
      Apparently that Army saying has traveled all the way to the provinces, because Donal suddenly grins, all teeth . . . as do my other captains.
      "Right on, then, ma'am. Look left!"
      I look left. He pulls right. We dodge and dance. I am rarely so aware of my wings; when I do battle, I'm usually airborne, and few other people can meet me there. But dancing this duel on the ground I realize how great a liability my wings could be. Donal tweaks me in the primaries, pulls at my secondaries, even manages to get behind me and wiggle a few coverts. He bats at them with his sword, his hand, his tail, whatever he can use. And every time he does, I jump. It's reflex. I can't help it.
      Finally I call, "Stop!"
      Donal halts, panting. He looks quizzical, but also serious, more serious than I've seen him yet. So do my captains. This weakness in me is new to us all. It could get me into serious trouble . . .
      . . . unless this old griffin can learn a new trick.
      "Come at me again," I say.
      Donal jumps. This time I swat him with a wing. I'm expecting it to hurt, and it doesn't feel good. But it startles him into stumbling back and I leap for him. He tries to pluck my feather and I whack him with my wing-arm. A spray of blood flies from his nose.
      We stop. "Is it broken?" I ask.
      He shakes his head. "No. But gosh, that didn't feel good."
      I laugh. He laughs. The crowd we've accrued applauds.
      "Good job," I say, slapping him on the shoulder. "Go take care of that nose." To the rest of the soldiers with a grin: "What are you looking at? Get to work!"
      The esprit de corps is much improved. I am pleased at the smiles and the renewed energy I see around me. Still, I'm hiding concern. So much of my life I've taken my wings for granted. Between the missing blood feather and the bashing, they ache. I think some of the feathers are broken. All the care I've ever done for them I've learned from experience. Perhaps I need more formal knowledge.
      I know the Fort has a library. Perhaps I should go look up some information before bringing my captains' requests to Stores.
      Readers want Angharad to research feather care, more about winged people in battle and about winged people in general.

Painted Mysteries
      As a child, I remember asking my nanny why books smelled like perfume. How amazed I was to hear about the flowers the paper-makers discovered staved off the yellowing of the eaves when added to the pulp! A dense enough collection of books smells like a field in spring combined with the odor of dust. There is nothing like the smell of a library.
      Nadeir's library is as cozy and dusky as a birthing cave, and perhaps that's appropriate: here among the pages, knowledge springs forth, breathlessly new, in the minds of readers. As I walk in and light a candle, my wings tightly folded against my back, I suddenly recall how deeply I longed to put aside my armor and investigate the mystery of our gods. How did we fall from godhead, if indeed we were once gods? Where did we come from? Where did they come from? What will happen to us when we reach that pinnacle? My fingers graze the leather spines lining the nearest shelf and I am glutted with an untoward and scholarly yearning.
      But I came for a reason. I seek the Index of Species and find it prominently displayed on the table, flipped open to a random page. Every library has one, a gloriously illustrated volume created locally and hand-painted with pictures of all the species that might go into the mix that is our blood. The back of each page is left blank for the librarian to fill in the names of books and page numbers that refer to those species. I lift the heavy volume gingerly and begin to page through it, finding all my more mundane constituents: Puma. Fisher. Lion. Siamese Cat. Ringtail Cat. I seek the parts of me that gave me my wings: Hawk. Crane. Phoenix. I even whisper the names of the creatures that I rarely speak of to anyone, for fear they will condemn my ancestors for their perversities: Snake. Coatl.
      I come to the end of the book without reaching a single winged creature, and I frown. I must have missed them. I place the book on the table and turn the pages more carefully . . . nothing.
      "May I help you, ma'am?" a voice says from the dark recesses of the library. A mostly-canid creature steps into the light of my candle, wearing robes and the librarian's patch, a flamelet swirling above an open book.
      According to readers, Angharad asks: "Yes, actually. I'm wondering why there are no winged creatures in the Index."

The Natural Order of Things
      "Yes, actually," I say. "I'm wondering why there are no winged creatures in the Index."
      "Winged creatures!" the man says with the restrained huff of a laugh so many librarians develop in the quiet of their demense. "The last time I saw a person with wings--"
      I spread mine so that their tips enter the globe of candlelight. He stops.
      "You must not be from around here," he says when he recovers his aplomb. "Forgive me. But the Index of Species usually includes only the species applicable to the people in the area. No one here has had winged blood in generations."
      That can't be. Oh, I know wings are rare, but surely not that rare. Though come to think of it, I can't remember meeting anyone else with wings. Still, I haven't met all the people in the Kingdom. My voice surprises me with its meekness as I say, "No one?"
      He shakes his head. "No. In fact . . . " His fingers skip across several volumes before pulling down A Natural History of Interbred Species. "Yes, here we are. 'Successful interbreeding with the winged species is very difficult; eight times out of ten, the infant is stillborn, one time out of ten the mother will give birth to an egg that stifles the newborn, and only once in ten will the infant be born without complication. As individuals, the winged species are also especially fragile, prone to disease and accidental injury. Within a few generations, these complicates closed the skies to us and the winged folk died out.' " He looks up at me and quirks a brow.
      "I see," I murmur, then manage a wry smile. "I suppose that means you don't have any books about feather care."
      "Oh, we do!" the librarian says. "For the mongrels."
      I remember suddenly the figure looming over me, treating my wounds. It never occurred to me to think of the mongrels when taking mental inventory of how many winged folk I'd met, and while I still haven't met all that many there are four or five mongrels I can recall with wings. Embarrassment reddens my ears, but all the same I wonder. Does purebreeding preserve the gift of flight? I'd presumed that vigor was one of the many happy products of interbreeding. What if some traits died between species?
      This thought is very distressing.
      The librarian hands me a slim volume and assures me I can take it with me as long as I return it before my company detaches for Shraeven. I leave the library in an unpleasant reverie. Interbreeding isn't supposed to be difficult. It isn't supposed to steal away survival traits. It's the natural order of things.
      According to readers, Angharad isn't sure anymore if interbreeding is the natural order things, and she's not sure how to go about investigating.

The Carnage (Pretend or Otherwise)
      I have no idea where my observations might lead me. In the past, I've always seen interbreeding as the way of the gods. Now? I'm not so sure.
      For example, these war games we've begun. From my rarified position, I've been watching my captains battle their way through the exercises we planned during our meeting... and I observe that Silfie's mongrels destroy my regulars with frightening consistency. The infantry simply isn't used to the tactics Silfie employs to sneak past their guard. She attacks at designated "night." She sends her mongrels through by ones and twos instead of columns or formations. Sometimes she puts her cavalry on top of the mongrels, surprising the infantry when the mount they assumed to be dumb snatches away their weapons or pulls them up by the leg.
      My soldiers simply are not prepared to treat mongrels as intelligent. And while mongrels might not have the intellectual capacity to debate religion and philosophy, as a general rule, they are smart enough to fight well--and to use what everyone assumed to be their disadvantages against the enemy.
      Halfway into our scheduled trial, I am astounded by the flexibility and the sheer usefulness of the mongrel unit. I'm also dismayed at how clumsily my infantry captains are responding to Silfie's tactics. We still have most of a week of practice left before we pack up and leave Nadeir for Shraeven. I'm beginning to wonder if I should step in and take over.
      Readers vote that Angharad should get involved.

The Problem with Army Captains
      I am intrigued by Silfie's tactics, and worried by them, and want to try my hand at defeating them.
      But then I have a better idea.
      "Stop!" I call halfway into the day's exercise. Colblain's units are holding a fort built out of sand packs and crates, and Silfie's cavalry are laying siege to it--well, infiltrating it, more accurately. "Switch, now!"
      Silfie and Colblain both look at me, the one wiping a dusty, sweaty mop of curls from her forehead, the other from atop a crate, looking both imperious and like a target.
      "Switch sides," I say, then hold up a hand. "Not units. Commanders. Silfie, you hold the fort with Colblain's men. Colblain, you command the cavalry."
      They look dubious, but trade places.
      The result is a complete disaster. Colblain has no idea what to do with the mongrels even after watching Silfie for most of the week. Worse, Colblain's men obviously respect Silfie, but they don't like her. The defeat she keeps serving them day after day weighs more heavily against her than for her. They obey her, but they don't perform as they should. The captains sitting out this round wince their way through the debacle.

The New Steward
      After supper, I return to quarters and page through my new book with gentle fingers. I stop on a diagram of a wing surrounded by gold-leafed arrows and numbers and squint at the caption: "Preen in this order." I glance at the accompanying text. I'm supposed to do this with my beak?
      I'm still staring at the diagram with horror when someone knocks on the door. "Come in," I say, distracted, and don't even look up.
      "May I offer you brandy before bed, Mistress?"
      I blink. I look up.
      There's a stag at my door. He's almost as tall as I am, his hair is silk over more muscles than I've seen in about fifteen years, and he has a rack of antlers so heavy I can't believe he can keep them up.
      "Who are you?" I ask in disbelief.
      "Your new steward," he says, bowing that giant weight. He's not wearing a shirt, and with his body dipped I can see a beautiful pattern of black stripes starting halfway down his back. "Magwen Nineblood from the Kerriwend River Valley."
      "I thought I was supposed to choose my new steward," I say. I can't stop staring at him. My last steward had been a slip of a man, completely unobtrusive. This man was as unobtrusive as a Godson's triumphal parade. Through a village. A very tiny village.
      "I apologize, Mistress, but the army is short of staff. The Godson, may the sun shine upon his head, has chosen to grace the sad and unenlightened savages in the south with our holy charter." The stag's face is so mild I can't tell if this is sarcasm or not. He has a tail, but I notice it only because it's not twitching.
      It's a nice tail. Long, striped with a brush of fur at the end.
      And then I realize . . . the south?? "I just came from the south," I say. "We already did the Godson's work there, unless he's planning to push past Glendallia--" I stop. "He's not, is he?"
      "I fear so, Mistress," the stag says.
      It's insane. We were over-extended in Glendallia as it was. We just finished pacifying that province. To use it as a staging ground for an assault on the far south . . . I sigh and run my hand down the length of my neck. That's not my problem anymore: Shraeven is. Shraeven, and this man.
      "I admit to some confusion, Magwen. What's a Nineblood doing as a steward?" I glance at him again; I can't help it. He is impressive to look at. The more I look, the more traces I see of his bloodlines. From the waist up, he's all hart, but from the waist down . . . he has clawed feet, and that tail, and several kinds of stripes. Tiger, and zebra maybe.
      "My child will be Godkin, Mistress," the stag says. "My family thought it mete that I serve our kingdom in the army."
      "As a steward?" I ask in disbelief.
      He grins then, and I like his grin. His brown eyes sparkle. "They didn't think much of the choice either. But I like serving in a support role, ma'am. I enjoy being able to make things run more smoothly."
      I can't believe this man. There's no way I'm not going to notice him going about his duties. The steward lives in a tent next to mine, serves my meals, does my clothing, cleans up after me, schedules my appointments, if necessary. Once we arrive in Shraeven's capital, he'll probably graduate to an even more important post in my administrative staff. Do I really want someone so... well... showy?
      Readers vote for Magwen to stick around!

Doctrine. Established. Once and For All.
      "She's not fighting fair," Gavan says, but his voice is contemplative, not accusing.
      "And why do you suppose that is?" I ask.
      "Because she's a mother," Gavan says confidently, earning Silfie's rolled eyes. "When women turn into mothers, they become devious and subtle and vicious. I have this on good authority from my own."
      "Yup, I say," Donal agrees with a sage nod.
      "But you do see that we have a problem," I tell them. They're all seated around my table, with Oweir looking perplexed and Colblain stern, Donal and Gavan thoughtful and Silfie... well, Silfie wearing a carefully bland non-expression. "One we need to solve."
      "No question," Oweir says. "Mistress, we're confused. Silfia--pardon me, Second--keeps thrashing us with tactics that would get her killed on the field of battle. These exercises aren't teaching our men anything--"
      "--you're right," I interrupt. "What they should be learning, what you should be learning, is that we're not going into a formal field of battle." I sigh. "This is Shraeven. It's one of the Godkindred's provinces. They don't have native militia. Their standing army is ours. We're not going in there to fight formal battles on a field of war, to lay siege to forts or to capture enemy commanders. We're going there to build bridges, put out granary fires, and reinforce the local laws. Our enemies aren't organized into infantry and cavalry. They're criminals, petty thieves, political dissidents."
      "A group of political dissidents in armor with swords is an army," Colblain points out.
      "Don't miss my point, Colblain," I say severely. "We need to stop thinking of ourselves as peace-makers and start thinking of ourselves as peace-keepers. To that end, I've re-organized our last few exercises." I hand out my sheets to them, watch them frown over them.
      "Fire drills?" Oweir asks, his voice almost cracking on his incredulity.
      "Hot blue horns!" Donal exclaims. "This is most excellent, Mistress! I know lots of iron-workers. And farmers in my unit there are a-plenty. They're going to love this one about dredging flooded fields."
      "We're not engineers, Mistress," Colblain says.
      Readers opine that the captains had better learn to be engineers, because there won't be enough jobs for "guards" when Angharad reaches the capital.

A Woman of My Stature, Rank and...
      "Then we'd better learn," I say. "This isn't a military campaign. It's an escort for a provincial governor. After we arrive, what will I do with all of you?"

The Child Godkin for the Sunblood Cliffs
      "I... suppose... just in case," I say, forcing the words out.
      Silfie sits next to me. Remarkably, she doesn't at all look at the handsome backside of the man who has resumed packing my trunks. In our earlier years, we both would have been ogling Magwen's assets. Now it's as if he isn't even in the room. "You will have to have the child Godkin for the Sunblood Cliffs," she says.
      "Yes," I say. "But not now. And not with some consort found in Shraeven!"
      "Why not?" she asks, canting one ear forward. "You may die in Shraeven, Angharad... after a long and fruitful career as its governor."
      I have been avoiding the very thought. The idea that I might not return to the Sunblood Cliffs, red stone and golden light plunging into aquamarine waves, seems ridiculous. Who will care for the Cliffs if not me?
      But I am already old, and if I am not careful, I will pass my childbearing prime without bringing forth an heir for my land. And then what will all the people of the Sunblood Cliffs do?
      My silence is long and spiky, but Silfie sits through it patiently, watching me with kind and sorrowful eyes. Then she says, "The scouts are back."
      They've been gone most of the two weeks, and they've returned just in time. We're leaving tomorrow, and I need whatever information they've managed to gather. "Let's go," I say, standing. On our way out, Silfie says to Magwen, "Less lace. More brocade. In jewel-dark hues."
      "Blue like deepest midnight," Magwen says. "Green as shimmery as a forest's heart. Brown as rich as fertile soil."
      "Right," Silfie says, and pulls me out of the room.
      It escapes me before I can stop it, in the emptiness of the corridor. "I don't want to have a baby."
      "Don't worry," Silfie says. "I'll help you take care of it."
      Readers think that was a weird thing to say, and wonder if Silfie means it...

Truth in Triple Shadows
      I glance askance at Silfie, but I don't ask. It's a strange thing to say, but now is not the time to pursue it. Will there ever be a time, I wonder?
      Together we step into the purple night, our shadows tripled by the moons. The courtyard is quiet; no doubt all my people are making their final preparations for tomorrow. I am struck, as I walk through the brisk, warm breeze, how right it is to be here, now, with Silfie at my side. She's shorter than I am, but takes quicker strides, and we advance in tandem, almost as if yoked.
      The scouts are waiting for us by the well, two of Donal's soldiers and two mongrels. I didn't see them off, so I'm surprised by one of the choices. The cat-like creature seems logical; her low body and heavy paws seem well-suited to climbing through mountains. The other mongrel, though, is a tall horse with breakable-looking legs, a narrow chest and a long back. He isn't a beautiful mount, but he stands as if his awkward body is comfortable, the most useful in the world.
      "Report," I say.
      One of the soldiers hands me a crudely drawn map while the other speaks. "The road up the mountain is good, Mistress Commander, better kept than any of us expected. Once you get a day up into it, there are even maintained campgrounds. And . . . it's inhabited, much more so than we expected." He exchanges a quick glance with the others. "There are a lot of people up there."
      "How many?"
      "We ran into at least three villages, and we only went four days up, Mistress," the soldier said. "Several of the natives offered their services as guides. They say that the trip up the mountain is good, but the trip down is treacherous."
      I raise a brow at Silfie, who says, "I've never been down the other side of the mountains."
      "What did you say to the guides?" I ask, turning back to the scouts.
      "We said that we didn't need them," the soldier says. "We weren't sure if you wanted them to know you were coming, ma'am, so we posed as travelers."
      "Well done," I say. "I'll want you to continue your scouting duties."
      "Yes, ma'am!"
      "Now go get some rest," I say.
      The soldiers salute, a tap to the lower sternum. The mongrels just bob their heads. I'm taken by the unexpected power of the mongrel mount's nod, as if there's more muscle hiding in that neck than I assumed. There's certainly more intelligence in that eye than I would have assumed. Again, something whispers into my ear, the suggestion that all my pre-conceived notions are wrong.
      No, wait, that's Silfie.
      When Silfie asks Angharad what she's thinking, readers decide Angharad wants a mongrel for a mount. Maybe even that one.

The Final Fork in the Road
      "Who was that?" I ask, nodding after the mount.
      "The horse? That was Honeydipped," Silfie says. When I glance at her askance, she shrugs and says, "When you see him in the light, you'll understand."
      "Is he one of your cavalry mounts?"
      She nods, then cants an ear at me with a quizzical look. "You're interested in him as a mount?"
      "Possibly. Bring him by tomorrow, while the men are forming up."
      Silfie nods. Three moons shed more than enough light for me to catch the surprise and pleasure that fly over her face. She wasn't expecting me to adjust to having mongrels so quickly. In truth I haven't yet... but in times of stress I default to the pragmatism the army taught me, and if I'm riding a mongrel day after day, then I will become what I seem to be: accustomed to them.
      We bid each other good night and retire to our beds. I expect to spend most of the night tossing, but I surprise myself by waking up at dawn with no memory of having slept.
      Today we leave for Shraeven.
      Today I'll set foot on the soil that will become my responsibility.
      Today my life changes, completely.
      I was supposed to retire. I was supposed to spend the remainder of my years in libraries, or on the roads to ruins and other archeological treasures left by the ancients, clues to our origins. I was supposed to... well, yes, it must be said. I was supposed to find a man of good blood, settle down, and produce the heir for my sun-drenched seaside lands, with their white beaches and golden grasses. Instead, I'm lying back down on a cot with a clay-plugged hole in my wing, already exhausted and achy and facing a two-month ride to the capital of a place that wants to see me about as much as I want to see it.
      I can still turn away. I can claim to be pregnant. I can ask for a dishonorable discharge. I can simply vanish.
      Facing this final choice, readers decide that Angharad will do the honorable thing: her duty.

The Road to Shraeven
      "As requested," Silfie says, stepping up to me leading the stallion by the reins.
      I pull my eyes from the column of men forming in the square and examine the mongrel in the light. Now indeed I know why he has his name. The beast is mostly gray, black skin, white hair, mane the color of clouds before storms. But he has tawny socks, so brilliant they look surreal above his white hooves. I'm not sure what to make of his coloration at all, except that it seems as unlikely as his awkward head, gangly legs and rangy body. At least the gold suits his light brown eyes.
      "You don't speak," I say to the horse, trying to sound as confident about this as I wish I was.
      The mongrel studies me unblinkingly.
      "We're not sure just how much he understands," Silfie says, running a hand over his neck. "Sometimes he seems uncanny. Other times, just another mount. He's nimble, though, and fast."
      "And tall enough for me," I say. "Can I borrow him?"
      Silfie says, "Only if I can have your mount in return. Otherwise, you'll be unseating one of my men."
      I nod. "Done. Have him tacked up for me."
      "Yes, Mistress."
      I spend the next half hour supervising the assemblage of my men, my abbreviated supply train and my staff. I try not to notice how many trunks Magwen is packing into the back of that wagon, but I have no doubt their contents will menace me soon enough. I can see Silfie always in the corner of my eye, doing what I need her to do before I can command her. How I long to trust this relationship, built on history and not on the present. Is she the woman I remember? Is she more? Am I enough?
      And what will Shraeven bring? I am uncertain. I didn't sign up for this, and though I'll do my duty, my misgivings are severe. Intense. One might even call them fears.
      But not a single soldier sees those misgivings as I pull myself onto Honeydipped's saddle. According to the the map provided by the scouts, we should be able to make a clearing with a stream large enough for the company by the end of the day. I cast my gaze over my assembled men, grip the pommel of the saddle for support and than pull myself onto my feet, balanced on Honeydipped's steady back.
      I spread my wings. I lift my arm. "TO SHRAEVEN!"
      "TO SHRAEVEN!" they roar back. I take wing, the company starts forward. We're on our way.
      Gods help us all.