Difficult Decisions
      "You nearly got us all killed?" I say, sipping my tea. "You're being quite kind to Oweir. Why should I spare him and send you away?"
      "I can't speak for Captain Oweir," Donal say. "I can only speak for myself, ma'am, and I failed you."
      I sigh. "No, Donal. I failed you by not giving you the information and training you needed to deal with the situation."
      His shoulders stiffen. "You couldn't have known what they'd be like, ma'am--"
      "It's my job to plan for the unthinkable, Donal," I say. I set my cup aside. "The flat fact is that I can't spare you. You're better trained than anyone I could replace you with. Your soldiers are fellow countrymen who trust your shared heritage. You have a lot to learn but you're not going to learn it if I demote you."
      "Mistress," Donal begins. He looks shattered.
      "Enough," I say. "Shraeven's not done with me yet, so I'm not done with you. Go take care of your people."
      "Yes, ma'am," he says with very little of his voice.
      I sigh and plant my thumb between my eyes, pressing. My head feels like it's going to explode and my wings ache from being bound. I want to fly from this place.
      I suppose I'll stay instead.
      I'm in a bad way, you understand. Oweir has no one left to command--literally, no one. Donal's unit's lost three-quarters of its strength now that the wounded have either recovered or moved on. Nor were his the only casualties . . . Silfie, Coblain and Gavan all lost people, and there are also unmounted cavalry. I'm not sure what I'm going to do with Oweir. I could split up the existing units so that everyone's got equal strength, or I could just leave them the way they are.
      Silfie's nose appears in my tent flap. "Hail the Mistress Commander."
      "Hail the firespice woman," I say, tired. "Come in."
      "We have a clear path down to the Gate," Silfie says. "I had some of the natives update our maps before they scattered. Looks like we'll only need a couple of weeks."
      "The Gate of Shraeven," I say. "Have you been there?"
      She shakes her head. "I never rode that far in. Still, they say it's civilized."
      I imagine it would be. Every province conquered by the Godkindred has a Gate city, a native town near the border seeded by the Godkindred with the culture and information that will later be spread as the armies move inward. By the time a province is pacified, the Gate is a commerce center on a broad, meticulously maintained road connecting it to the hub of the Godkindred Kingdom. The older Gate cities I've visited have blended sophistication with exotic locales. Depositories, libraries, post stations . . . we'll be able to catch up on business and re-supply, and I'll get my first taste of city life in Shraeven.
      "Two weeks," I say. "By the time we march in there we need to look like we just rode out of a parade, you know."
      Silfie's ears flip back. "That would be a good trick. Our back end got chewed off in that ambush."
      Patrons decide that redistribution of the men would be a poor idea. They vote to give Oweir new duties.

This Topsy-Turvy Campaign
      "Two weeks is long enough to repair gear and get back into shape," I say. "I wonder if they've already built barracks in Shraeven's Gate."
      Silfie cants her head. "You think we can pick up a unit to replace Oweir's?"
      "I'm supposed to have anything I need," I say.
      "Will we really need five units?" Silfie asks. "This is the civilized part of Shraeven. It's already conquered."
      I think of all the dead and wounded, of my own body's complaints, of my bound wings, of the strange glint in the eyes of the valley villagers, the people of the plains. "You don't say?"
      Silfie's ears flip backward, but not fast enough to hide the red flush. "I didn't mean to--"
      "I know," I say.
      "I'll take care of getting us in shape," she says and ducks out.

Interlude
      Don't think, because I'm moving on, that I don't remember their names. That I don't care. That separating the detail to escort the bodies back to the Kingdom was something I did without thinking, without remembering faces.
      I always know the faces of my soldiers.
      I remember them when I write the letters. I know their names even if I don't blur the ink on those letters with tears. I add my personal contribution to the money sent by the Kingdom to their families, and I never count that cost... and riding, I mourn them even as I continue down the bright road to the Gate into the province.
      I whip myself for letting them die and I'm the only one who sees those scars... as it should be. That kind of pain is selfish compared to that of those who truly knew them, and I share it with no one.
      But I remember, oh yes.
      This time, though, I wonder if Mistress General Casandre Godkin knows their faces.
      This time, I wonder if the Godson cares.

The Devolution of War
      "Captain Oweir Threeblood from the Salt Caves, reporting for duty, ma'am."
      I glance up from my papers and squint at Oweir. He's standing at the tent flap, straight as a sunflower stalk, but (also like a sunflower stalk) leaning just a little to one side.
      "Have you been released by the doctors?" I ask. "You had quite a fever."
      "I'm fine, ma'am. I just need some fresh air."
      The insides of his ears are pale. "Sit down before you fall over, soldier."
      Without the formality to keep him upright he doesn't so much sit as collapse. His shoulders slump. His tail droops. Even his ears dip. I don't think he notices how effortlessly his body has become a history of his defeat at the Pard cleft.
      I can't have him wandering around like this, not only marinating in his own guilt but communicating it to everyone around him. "So, Captain. Feel well enough to sit a mount?"
      "Ma'am?"
      "You didn't come here expecting me to pat you on the shoulder and send you back to bed, I hope," I say. "You took a heavy loss and I have no new men to give you. But I still need you."
      His ears tilt upward, just a little.
      "Pick a handful of men--the ones that put people at ease, who have a way with words, who look friendly--and ride down into the Gate in advance of us," I continue. "You'll only have a couple of days to have a look around and find us a place to stay if there's no barracks, but that should be long enough. By the time I arrive I'm going to need you to tell me the mood of the city and how the citizens are likely to react to us if we start wandering around."
      "Yes, Mistress!" Oweir says, surprised.
      "Make sure you take one of the mongrels with you," I say. "Other than that... you have your orders. Go to it."
      He jumps to his feet and salutes. "Aye, Mistress! I'll do my best!"
      I wonder whether to say something about not "doing your best," but "doing your job," but at this point it would just demoralize him. He's so brittle a careless word might shatter him. "Dismissed," I say.
      And he's off: Ragna's scout, turned more into an emissary. I suppose that's the tenor of this gods-cursed campaign: war devolving into politics. Bah.
      How fast? Readers think the drama should sneak up on Angharad for the next segment.

Royal Welcome
      I didn't expect the Gate of Shraeven to be beautiful, so I'm not disappointed. But I am surprised. Maybe thinking there would be no shining city girded in verdant fields made me expect the opposite... some haphazard arrangement of hovels barely worth stopping at to water our mounts.
      Instead, the Gate of Shraeven is an aerie, a curving claw of stone houses crouching on the mountain's final rocky slope as it overlooks the checkered tawny and brown squares of the farming fields. A bright silver river darts through the Gate and down to the green.
      Definitely surprised.
      Oweir meets us as we ride through the outskirts beneath the branches of slim and flexible flowering trees.
      "Ma'am," he says.
      "How do you find the Gate?" I ask him as he pulls his mount in alongside.
      "Good," he says. He still has dark hollows beneath his eyes but he no longer looks quite so fey. "The barracks has space for us, and they're well-supplied and eager to talk."
      "Excellent," I say. "And the townsfolk?"
      His ears flush red. "They... well." He clears his throat. "A place has been prepared for you in particular, Mistress. There are governmental apartments."
      "Surely not," I say. "This far from the capital?"
      "They used to be royal apartments." I cock a brow at him and he continues, "When Shraeven was a country, its royalty traveled from town to town once a year. The Gate still maintains that housing for the Governor."
      "And has the Governor ever made one of these royal tours?" I ask.
      He reddens. "No, ma'am." Straightening, he adds, "But news of our battle preceded me, Mistress. I think you'll find the people of Shraevensgate already like you more than they liked Governor Chordwain."
      "That's good to hear," I say, and by then we're passing the first few sheds. My mount's clawed feet gain a pebbly road and then: ah! Familiar music, the precise rhythm of boots on a paved road, joined by the clatter or scrabble of the cavalry's beasts. I'm feeling better already. In fact, by the time we pass stern stone houses I'm in a wonderful mood...
      ... the houses have streamers.
      Those people aren't just going about their business, either. They're staring. At me.
      And is that--
      "Sorry, ma'am," Oweir says sheepishly, and he doesn't sound sorry enough. "I couldn't stop them."
      The main thoroughfare is lined--crowded--with people.
      Ooh, a PR opportunity! Or so patrons declare. Angharad should make the best of this!

Petal-Lined Processions
      "Silfie--"
      But even as I call, she's answering: "On it, Mistress." I hear her galloping back down the line shouting, "Parade drill! Banners up! Bearer to the fore!" By the time she draws into formation beside and slightly behind me, the unit banners are up and the flag of the Godson and our company is being hoisted in front of me. We march into Shraevensgate, knees-high and counting our steps. Bandaged and fettered, I don't exactly cut a fine figure but the men make me proud.
      Thousands and thousands of yellow and white petals shower us from overhead balconies as we turn onto the main thoroughfare, staining the air with a clean, floral scent. There's no cheering from the people lining the streets, but their faces are curious, expectant and often glad. Children laugh at the sight of our flashing armor, the snapping banners. I make the best of this and wave and smile. And maybe the wind is teasing my hair, but it's the only thing impressive about me right now so I can't complain. At least I washed it this morning.
      The thoroughfare leads up to a hill, where I expected it to end... perhaps in a market square or a governmental building or church. Instead, it crests the hill and continues down into Shraeven. The expected building is in fact over it, held aloft by black stone pylons and buttressed with sturdy gray arches.
      "That is...?" I murmur to Oweir as I wave and try not to inadverdantly inhale any of the petals.
      "The Overlook," he says. "Where the royal apartments are and the rooms of governance. The road leads all the way to the capital."
      Roads are expensive. I had no idea Shraeven had the manpower and money to pave a street from the mountain highlands all the way to the sea. I am impressed.
      Several people are awaiting me in front of the royal apartments. They are arrayed not just on the ground, blocking the road, but also up on the broad and shallow steps that are off-set from the road.
      "Lord Miltun, his prime, Arushka and their household," Oweir murmured. "In charge of the Gate."
      "Nice people?" I ask sotto voce.
      Good question. Patrons decide that the local nobility are cautious; they didn't like the previous governor and aren't sure whether Angharad will be ally... or oppressor.

Lord Miltun, Eyes Full of Worlds
      "Good people," Oweir says, just as our processions halts before them. I look down from atop my mount at Lord Miltun, whose wiry body is wholly uninteresting compared to the worlds in his eyes. This is not hyperbole. The bottom of his irises are green rimmed in brown -- the top (I swear!) are blue rimmed in gray. The entirety is flecked with gold, but one eye more than the other. I wonder if that's the side with the sun.
      "Lord Miltun," I say.
      "My lady Governor," he says. "Welcome to Shraevensgate." He holds out a hand to help me dismount and I take it, though I don't need it. When our fingers graze, I feel... something sharp and hot, like the patter of sparks off a shifting fire. I glance at him, but he's already indicating the woman beside him. "My prime, Arushka."
      Arushka is taller than Miltun but shorter than me, and her gravitas is indeed impressive. I feel as though I'm confronting a stone pillar. "Governor," she says, her voice a surprising soprano.
      I nod to them both and introduce Silfie and Ragna. They don't even blink at the latter; it makes me wonder if there's any contact at all between the Gate and the people of the mountains.
      "Your man Oweir has arranged for the bunking of your company," Miltun continues, "but we would be pleased if you would stay in the governmental apartments. Perhaps tomorrow you may be disposed towards a tour of our fair city."
      "I would enjoy that," I say as he leads us up the stairs. As we walk the hallways I have impressions: cold marble tiles but astounding windows, so that you barely notice the stone at all: just the vista, and what a vista it is, verdant and full of promise. For a moment, I actually think of adventure.
      More small talk and I am now in my apartments. Miltun promises to share supper with us later. I dispatch Oweir and Silfie to take care of settling the men.
      "Shall I draw you a bath?" Ragna asks as I walk the edges of my state room, staring out the windows and trailing a hand along the mantle of the broad fireplace.
      "A bath," I say.
      "To prepare for dinner, which I'm sure will be a state affair," Ragna says. "We have a great deal to talk about, Mistress."
      "We do?"
      She nods. "There are customs here you will be unfamiliar with."
      What a surprise.
      Readers think Angharad will be most disturbed by the nobility being conferred by choice, not by birthright.

Bloodright, Landright
      Ragna sets out clothing for me, once my baggage arrives. Not long after, the hot water appears and I'm soon sinking into a tub in front of the fireplace. It's slightly too small for me, but I'm quite all right with that.
      "So," I say as the pard starts lathering my hair, "what new thing promises to disturb me about Miltun and the city of Shraevensgate?"
      "You know Arushka is his prime," she says. "You understand what that means?"
      I don't and am about to say so when some memory sparks: Silfie's face, something about "circle marriages." "He has more than one wife?"
      Ragna nods. "It is customary for the nobility. They have the need."
      I snort. "There are plenty of nobles where I'm from and we don't need more than one spouse."
      "Ah, but your nobility is based on blood-right. The nobility here is... otherwise. It is the reason why no one accepted your king's provisional governor... and the reason they won't accept you, unless you are different." She wrings my hair, and her voice becomes contemplative. "Which you may be."
      "Different how?" I ask, as she expects me to.
      "Nobles do not choose who becomes noble, by marrying and breeding. The land chooses the nobles, the land, the wind and the sea."
      "And now the mystical wagglebat," I say. "How exactly does this work?"
      "It's not nonsense," Ragna says. "Didn't you see Miltun's eyes? He is powerfully loved by Shraeven if both the sea and the land chose him."
      I feel the first faint stirrings of unease. "Don't tell me this has something to do with the Wind."
      "Of course it does," Ragna says. "I can ask Negrat to explain further, if you like."
      Negrat should explain this to Angharad as soon as she's done with the bath.

The Griffin Who is Not a Diplomat
      "Perhaps that would be best," I say, and now I realize I'm reluctant to lose the pleasure of Ragna's company. Alone. So reluctant, in fact, that I don't even want to share with her how much I'm enjoying it. So she bathes me and I catalog the series of accidental brushes, gentle touches and lovely views, adding each to my memories of an event without perilous emotional strings attached . . . or physical dangers. I have few enough of those lately. This is a treasure.
      Negrat holds forth while I have my hair dressed and my boots buffed and his lecture makes very little sense to me: something about the magic of the three elements choosing and binding its rulers. Once these elements have chosen, the person in question must use what abilities he has to solve the problems of the land nearby... though personally, I wonder what anyone can do about the weather, about drought, about crop blight and plague. Through these actions, the man earns the right to rule the land. This apparently requires so much time and energy he needs more than one wife.
      It all sounds utterly ridiculous to me, but over dinner with Miltun, his prime and two of his lesser wives I am again struck by his world-colored eyes and I wonder.
      He's quite cordial to me but doesn't reach out. Later, over fortified wine and thin honey-spice wafers in a drawing room, I ask him, "So what do you need, Lord Miltun?"
      "Pardon?" he asks politely.
      I tilt my beak toward the window, then look back at him. "Shraevensgate. Is there anything you need to make the city more prosperous? The people more productive? Any city works you need help building? Is there any provincial law you find especially difficult?"
      He stares at me; the golden eye seems to shimmer. "Are you asking how you can help?"
      "I am your Governor," I say. "It's my duty to help, if I can." I shrug. "I have no idea what the state of the province is and probably won't until I reach the capital and speak with my predecessor. But at very least I can learn something of your city on the way in."
      "Careful, madam," he says, sipping his wine. "Too much of that behavior and you won't be long for the Godkindred Kingdom."
      I cant a brow at him. "Is that because the magic will come and claim me, or because doing well for Shraeven will be so divisive that the Godson will decide we've gone rogue?"
      "Stars!" Miltun exclaims. "You speak plainly, don't you?"
      I shrug. "I'm not a diplomat."
      He laughs. "Very well, then. A little of both. Or perhaps a lot of both."
      "Shraevensgate's needs?" I prod. "So I can keep them in mind once I know what resources I have to spare?"
      "You'll have them tomorrow afternoon," he promises, and for the first time he's wearing a real smile.
      While preparing for bed I reflect that the day has gone inordinately well. We had a parade--very nice, that--I had a bath that involved no untoward or awkward emotional incidents... now this very satisfying dinner wtih Miltun. I need more days like this one. I head into my bedchamber... and find Ragna curled up at its foot, like some sort of pet dog.
      Patrons wonder if this is some sort of test... or a practical joke?

Dissembling
      I crouch across from her, fairly certain she's sleeping. Her blouse is open far enough that the long guard hairs below her collar bones are visible, spreading and flattening together as she breathes.
      I wonder if this is some sort of test. Am I supposed to leave her here, like some sort of animal? Is it custom in Shraeven to treat people who look more like animals like animals... or is this something about her being my servant? Or perhaps it has to do with her being from the Mountains--are country folk less respected than city folk?
      Rifling through the possibilities I begin to realize how little I understand about the mingled cultures of Shraeven. I also realize I've been crouching long enough that my knees hurt, and it irritates me that my knees hurt so quickly when I bend these days. This is the thought that Ragna catches on my face when one of her sea green eyes opens... but that expression flees, since I'm struck dumb by how her needle-thin pupil floods her eye in an adjustment to the low lighting.
      "I thought you were asleep," I whisper after a moment.
      "I am," she says muzzily and yawns, stretching lips around ivory fangs.
      "Are you supposed to be here?" I ask.
      "Yes," she says.
      "I don't like it," I say.
      "It's custom in the city," she says, lids lowering again. "Bodyservants are expected to act so."
      "Like animals?" I say. "I don't like it. Come onto the bed."
      "And if someone finds out?" she wonders.
      "Then I tell them a bodyguard who can sleep on the floor and not be too stiff to come to my defense is too young to be of any use," I say tartly. "Come on."
      I walk around to the side of the bed, expecting her to follow. Instead she pours over the end of the bed-frame as if she has no bones to get in the way. I stare at her and she's grinning, all wide whiskers and merry, pupil-swollen eyes.
      "Some bodyguard," she offers. "I suppose I'm too young to know anything."
      "Oh, stop it," I say and wedge myself with considerably less grace beneath the covers. "I don't need more reminders that I'm seizing up like a rusty wagon wheel."
      She curls up at the end of the bed in a tight ball. When I open my mouth to say something, she lifts a hand. "Mistress, I will sleep on your bed . . . but not in a way that will let them think you completely soft in the head."
      "You're assuming they're going to walk into my bed-chamber before I'm ready," I say.
      "You're assuming I'm dissembling for the sake of our hosts."
      I don't know what to say to that--there are too many questions. I settle for, "You are dissembling, aren't you?"
      "Am I?" she asks. She lunges across my legs and her huff blows out the candle. In the dark, I feel the blankets pull away as she resettles her weight at the end of the bed. I still don't like it.
      Then one of her hands reaches out and rests on my ankle... gently, very gently. I decide I can live with it.
      Patrons decide it's time for Angharad to have visions!

Real Nightmare
      Nightmares stopped waking me shortly after I embarked on my career, when I learned to handle nightmares much the way I handle campaigning: I trudge through them, trusting to see them to an end. Treating nightmares this way transforms them into something mundane and work-a-day, and it seems bad dreams take great offense from such treatment. I haven't had a nightmare I couldn't handle for over thirty years.
      This perhaps excuses me from reacting to the first one that actually worked by nearly leaping out of bed. Ragna's surprised yowl grounded me in this reality, but even imagining how ridiculous I must look in battle stance dressed in a nightgown didn't calm my pounding heart.
      "Angharad?" Ragna asks, wide eyes just visible in the dark.
      "It's nothing," I say. But it's not. It's everything. It's never seeing home again. It's the Godson opening my throat on an altar, and my golden-blue-green eyes losing their light. It's Silfie in chains, bleeding as she walks. It's everything in ruins, and me not even realizing how much it all matters to me.
      I crawl back into bed, stinking of my own sweat.
      My mood deteriorates quickly when sleep doesn't provide its usual benefits, and my morning bath (while welcome) doesn't help shake me awake. I present myself for breakfast with Lord Miltun and his wives, hiding as best I can my black mood. Fortunately, Miltun's youngest wife is garrulous, and for the tiniest expense of my energy I am rewarded with a flood of talk from her. That most of it is about cooking, clothing or gardening is no bonus, but at least no one expects me to have any opinions on such topics.
      The relief that wells up in me when I see Silfie in the entrance hall, impeccably groomed and accoutered in her dress uniform... well, even I can be unsettled by proof that she still means so much to me. As I rest my eyes on her, Miltun passes me and says, "Our mounts are waiting outside."
      I follow him and Silfie locks into place, behind and to one side of me. I love her, I think. How can I ever deny it? As easily as that, my mood shifts and everything is beautiful. The day is a glorious one, with a brilliant, high sky full of puffy pale clouds and a breeze that seems to whisper. I tilt my ears to catch it and discover the Winds are laughing. Why should they not on such a wonderful morning? That my poor sleep gives everything a surreal quality may not be a bad thing. Surely such a sudden happiness is only available to the sleep-deprived.
      "The tour should take us most of the day," Miltun's saying as we approach the mounts. "We plan to wend through the governmental sector to the merchant alleys, where we will stop for lunch. After that, we'll visit the residential areas and our outlying warehouses and fields before returning here for dinner. If that pleases you?"
      "It pleases me very well," I say and squint down the lane. There's a rider galloping toward us, followed by several others. "Are those late additions to our entourage?"
      Miltun's frowning. "No, Governor."
      The rider pulls his beast up before us. He's dusty, streaked with sweat, but even so what a fine figure he cuts! He has an antelope's horns but the elegant face of a great cat, scattered with spots that enlarge over his throat into patches. His ears are tall and elegant; his tail a charming combination of lion's switch and stallion's fall. Though he obviously rode far and hard and his traveling clothes are the worse for the wearing, they are of exquisite quality.
      His riders pull up behind him. Something about his demeanor perplexes me, and I unriddle it when I realize that he's not staring at me... nor at Miltun... but rather at some point behind my left shoulder.
      "You killed my brother!" he cries.
      "I beg your pardon," I say. "I don't recognize you."
      He glances at me, dismisses me. I'm not used to being dismissed. Before he can continue, I say sharply, "I'm the Governor of Shraeven Province and the Mistress Commander in the area. Who are you? What do you want?"
      "I'm not here to talk to you," he says. "I'm here to kill that murderess, kill her and erase the blot of honor she put upon my family by mingling our bloodlines!"
      I turn slowly, suddenly... both. Neither. My dreams and my nightmares and my life are now tangled. They tighten in their knots when I see that his finger points to Silfie... and that Silfie, my Silfie, looks neither surprised nor alarmed, merely resigned.
      Readers are alarmed that Miltun is watching this. Quick, don't let them do anything rash!

To Give a Dangerous Answer
      I wish I felt more rested. Clearer. I turn away from Silfie and say to the man, "Well, that's one of two. Now answer the first question."
      He looks taken-aback--no, that's too gentle a term for his goggle eyes and utter confusion. He looks poleaxed. "Excuse me?"
      "I asked you two questions," I say. "You answered the second, about what you want. You have yet to answer the first." When he continues to stare at me, I say, "You are in my province, young man, and your frenzy does not impress me. For the last time, tell me your name. And while you're at it, restate your intentions in a way that doesn't shame a subject of the Godson."
      That stings him. He's shaking in his saddle but now his fierce gaze is on me, as it should be. "My name is Teodor Eightblood of the Bramblewood Valley. I have come to challenge my sister-in-law to a duel over the death of my brother, Renald." At which point he can't restrain himself further. "She murdered him. They might not have found her guilty of it, but I know she did it."
      "And you have proof," I say dryly.
      "I need no proof," Teodor proclaims. "Blood will tell."
      "Is this typical of your people?" Miltun asks casually. "Do they slaughter one another over imagined improprieties even if your highest authorities proclaim their innocence?"
      Teodor snarls, but I ignore him. I hear the subtext of Miltun's question as if he'd shouted it into my ear. I hear it so clearly I have no idea how to respond without giving him ideas. Do I tell him we still allow duels and so let him assume that the people of the Kingdom ignore the Godson's officials on their passionate whims? Or do I lie?
      I hate politics.
      "It is an ancient custom," I say. "Older than the Godson. Older even than the Kingdom, if our histories are accurate. A bit of barbarism we have yet to shake loose from our heels."
      "So you will let this man do it?"
      Miltun's eyes rest on mine, glinting. Oh, he asks dangerous questions, and this one is even worse. If I say, "Yes," then he will think me a tool of a monarch who is either a savage or not as powerful as he puts himself forth. If I say "No," he will rightly interpret that as an assertion of my own rules . . . over those of my king. My options are to paint myself weak . . . or so paint my country.
      Readers decide that Angharad should consult the gods!

Chosen by Quarreling Powers
      "You," I say to the impatient man. "Go find lodging. I'll call you later."
      "I demand--"
      "You are in my jurisdiction now," I say, letting a hard edge sharpen the words. "If I say you have to walk home without water, that's what you'll do. Be glad I'm sparing you that. Now go."
      He stares at me, seething . . . but I have had decades more practice facing down enraged men on the verge of rash action. With a jerk, his mount's head is around and they're galloping off. They meet the two in the distance and clatter down the street.
      "What will you do?" Miltun asks conversationally.
      "I will ask the Wind," I say.
      He glances at me, incredulous. "You know the Wind?"
      "Oh, do I," I say with an exasperated sigh.
      He starts laughing, Miltun. Laughing. I glower at him but it has no effect at all. When he catches his breath, he says, "You are not like Governor Chordwain, madam. He wouldn't hear of our ridiculous beliefs."
      "When the Wind tries to pluck you off a plateau and then argues with you in your ears, you can either believe you've gone insane or you can decide you've been chosen by great powers," I say, catching his humor. "I'm not ready to be put down for insanity and great powers sounded useful."
      Miltun chortles. "Yes, yes. You will need them. I only wonder if the Wind will be the last?"
      "By the blood!" I exclaim. "I hope so! One is bad enough."
      "Yes," he agrees. "After that, they start quarreling."
      I am discussing divine powers I barely believe in with a man I barely trust. What has gotten into me? Ah yes. I turn to Silfie. She's been a soldier too long to do anything as stupid as ask me directly what I'm thinking in front of Miltun, but her eyes on mine are wary. I say to her, "Fetch Negrat. We must come up with a way to talk to the Wind."
      Her brows go up. Perhaps she thought I would only pretend to consult the Shraevenese powers? She doesn't comment, only turns and marches to the stairs.
      Readers think the ritual should be dangerous, public and awe-inspiring!

Ritual Design
      So instead of a pleasant ride with the local powers through a town that had the good sense to cheer my company's arrival, I spend the morning in my rooms. Arguing. With a priest.
      "You must do this where others can see you," Negrat says.
      "But you just said that if I call for the Wind, it might not show up," I point out. "Why would I want to do something publically that might fail?"
      "Because you would like to build the people's confidence in you," he says.
      "And they'll be so impressed if the Wind doesn't deign to arrive."
      He laughs. "The gods love confidence as much as the people, Godkin woman. Except when they abhor it."
      I dip my head and splay my fingers over my closed eyes. My bound wing muscles ache. "Religion," I say, "is infuriating."
      "Of course it is," he says. "We aim to interpret the uninterpretable. How can we not fail from time to time? What builds faith is not that we always succeed, but that we succeed at all."
      I remember why I am a soldier, not a shaman. Except now I'm supposed to be both. "Fine," I say. "We'll do this in public. Now tell me something about this ritual I'll like."
      "It will entail some risk," he says. "The Wind loves the high places and you cannot fly."
      I open an eye and stare past my fingers at him. "I said to tell me something I'd like."
      He beams. "You like sarcasm."
      I close my eye. Despite myself, the corners of my mouth twitch.
      See Silfie now, Patrons say.

Guilt and Innocence
      Ritual design is not so different from campaign planning, I find. You choose your ground, you discuss allies, supplies and logistics and then you delegate people to prepare according to your tactical plan.
      As long as I think of it that way, I can ignore that I'm going to be clinging to a steeple burning incense to a capricious and invisible power.
      Gods help me. They'd better.
      With Negrat and Ragna off to prepare, I fall back to the core of the matter and call for my second. She arrives quickly, as if she was waiting for the summons . . . which she probably was. As she enters the chamber, I seek some hint of emotion in her gaze, something to allow me to guess her mind. Instead, her copper eyes are hard as coins.
      "Sit," I say, nodding to the chair across from mine. As she does so, I pour us tea and pass her a cup. We drink as if this is another normal day . . . afternoon, by now.
      "You must have made quite an impression," I say.
      "On who... Teodor?" She shrugs. "Teodor is an idiot, just as his brother was."
      "And yet you married him," I say and find the words very strange to speak aloud.
      "Renald, yes," Silfie says. "Mother and Father wanted an heir for the Dale. I gave them one. May they have joy of him."
      I fold my fingers around the warm walls of the cup and frown. "Forgive me for saying this--"
      She looks up at me, waiting.
      "--but though I never thought of you as a gentle mother, I'm a little startled by the depth of your antipathy."
      She looks down again. "Some aren't born to nurture, Angharad."
      But I hear the pain that makes her words husky, and I remember the tenderness with which she massaged away my aches when my neck muscles grew strained. I remember her care when she learned the unusual planes of my body. I remember a gentle touch with a niece we both liked.
      I set the cup down. I should have trusted my instincts from the beginning. "Why?"
      She meets my eyes. I wait. I know she knows what I'm asking. Finally, without blinking or looking away, she says, "He hit me. Like the most brutish of peasants. I'm not easy to hit, but he found ways. Even when I was pregnant, he found ways. I caught him over the cradle with a lifted hand."
      "And you killed him," I said. "Right then."
      She barks a tired laugh. "Oh no. He was too strong and he didn't let me keep weapons. I had to plan his death very carefully. I murdered him without giving him a chance to defend himself. And I sleep quite peacefully at night."
      I nod. "What happened at the trial?"
      "Everyone knew what he was doing. They knew what I'd done. But no one was going to find me guilty as long as there was danger to a six-blood son. They found me innocent and remanded my son to my parents." Her eyes spark at last. "Which is just as well. They chose the match. They wanted the child. Now they have him."
      I reach across the table and capture her clenched hands. With gentle fingers I rub circles against the flesh until her fists loosen and I can clasp them, palm to palm.
      "I didn't want you to know," she says, looking at our joined hands, fire-brown, river-gold.
      "Surely you didn't think I'd blame you for killing a man who endangered you and a baby?" I asked.
      She shakes her head, and a few curls fall over her cheeks. "No. Of course not. I just didn't want you to know how sordid the whole thing was. I'd kill him again if he dug himself free of his grave but everything else . . . " She stops and takes a shaky breath, then continues in a harder voice, "Killing him was the cleanest part of the whole mess."
      The guilt I feel is irrational, but acknowledging it doesn't make it go away. I squeeze her hands.
      "It's not your fault," she says, as if reading my mind. "You didn't drive me away. If you'd remained my beloved, I would still have had to marry and get the Dale an heir."
      "But perhaps it would have been someone else," I say.
      She laughs, a halting soft chuff now. "Oh, Angharad. I missed you more than I could tell."
      Readers are ready for this romance to rekindle!

Happiness
      Kissing is a hard thing for me. I've explained before, I think. We had ways, but it remains an awkward thing.
      But this: this I can do. I bring her hands to the edge of my bill and then lick the thin skin between her knuckles... where it's stretched tight and the fur is short as felt. Where it smells like fox and tastes like fire and hints at copper and rose and woman. Where I can feel her shiver through the back of her hand and over her hardened wrists.
      Her fingers twine around to clasp the underside of my beak. This is familiar . . . seventeen-years-old and not a hint of rust. This is how she brings her face to mine so we can rub cheeks, so I can feel her soft, wet nose against the base of my ear, where she can tickle me by blowing into it until my ear flicks over and over and laughing becomes something deeper and warmer, and of course, now, it's done, it's all over. I couldn't go back from this. I couldn't turn my back from it.
      Love is so rare.
      "We should get up," Silfie says against my collarbones, many, many eternities later.
      "Not yet," I say. "The blankets feel too good."
      A sound then: *murfle*, it sounds like. A chagrined laugh, muffled against my skin, tickling it through the fur. "We left our clothing all over the antechamber."
      "That's why I have servants," I say, with just a hint of smug humor.
      We laze for a while longer in the brown and blue shadows of the bedroom.
      "Why does the bed smell like Ragna?" Silfie asks.
      I lift my head enough for an exaggerated sniff of the air. "I smell plenty of things, but Ragna's not one of them."
      She snickers. "Before we made it smell like us."
      "She wanted to sleep at the foot of my bed like some sort of trained animal," I say. "I wouldn't have it. So she slept on the end of the bed... like an especially prized trained animal."
      "It bothers you."
      "Of course," I say. "She's more than that." I glance at her. "And now you will say something like, "You find her interesting," and I'll say that of course I do, because she is. She's articulate in a culture that doesn't value eloquence. She's riddled with secrets like a particularly ancient book. And she's pretty and young, and looking at her reminds me that I used to be that pretty and that young. And that flexible."
      Silfie snorts. "You're flexible enough."
      I laugh. "You know what I mean."
      She nods against my chest. Then, "You ... we ..."
      I silence her with a finger against her mouth. "Always 'we.' We both should have realized that."
      Her breath flutters over my finger, short and tense... then she blows a long sigh and I feel the line of her body against mine grow lax. Then teeth nip the fleshy pad of the finger.
      "Hey!" I laugh. She laughs. We might have had another tumble then had we been younger... but I am not at all discontent with this comfortable snuggle.
      From the antechamber, Ragna's voice lifts. "Mistress?"
      Silfie stifles a snigger against my ribs. I try to be embarrassed, but I fail. "Yes, Ragna?"
      The pard doesn't enter; her voice sounds from where it did the first time, as if she'd stopped moving shortly after entering the front room. "You should prepare for the ritual. It'll be time soon."
      "Ah, of course," I call. "I may need a bath." Silfie snickers.
      Readers decide that Ragna thinks it's about time those two fell together.

My Own World Barred to Me
      There is a temple dedicated to the elements in Shraevensgate, and to reach its altar to the air you climb twenty banks of steps around a thin tower to a ledge encircling a hollow needle: you lace a rope of incense into the filigree and then wait for it to burn down before leaving again. You undertake this ritual during the day when you can see the drop, the steps, and the needle's stone fretwork.
      So naturally I am climbing them at night. Without a lantern. And with a crowd of curious onlookers at the base of the temple, wondering if the woman with wings is going to fall to her death. That would be a truly clever way for Shraeven's gods to do away with this new menace from the Godkindred Kingdom.
      Had I been fully healed I would have strode these steps--no, I would have ignored them and flown to the steeple, perched on it and waved the incense in the air like a pennant. Instead, I'm wishing for a guard rail and glad of the darkness that keeps me from seeing the distance to the ground. It takes me longer than I like to climb onto the ledge, but once there I look out over the town and into the dark valley leading to the distant sea. The stars barely illumine the landscape. Perhaps it is colder here than it was on the ground, or perhaps it's merely the sense of being so utterly alone. No, that doesn't sound right. I've been alone in the air before without my hair rising along my spine: it's the vulnerability that frightens me. I am a creature of the Air in my element, but tonight my own world is barred to me.
      I weave the incense rope through the filigree hooks, then light the end and blow until it glows fierce crimson. I can still smell Silfie . . . I didn't wash behind my ears. Silfie likes ears. "So round and little," she teases me and chews on them until I squirm.
      "I'm here because of her," I say to the Wind, if the Wind is listening. "It has nothing to do with wanting to present a good face to Shraeven, or even to decide policy in a fair way. I think. I'm here because I love her and I hate the idea of some clumsy idiot having a lucky day with a sword in a duelling square. I love her and I don't want her to be judged. You like honesty . . . there it is."
      No response. I add, "Tell me what I should do."
      Silence always feels larger than the space it's occupying. It's so oppressive I lose my fear of falling, because who could fall through a quiet this thick?
      "This is an opportunity," I tell the air. "You can change something in Shraeven through me. You just have to tell me what you want me to do."
      Still nothing. Almost a stubborn nothing. And time is just as capricious. I'm betting my incense is going to take longer to burn than anyone else's exact same rope. I suppose I could use the time to decide how to explain the Wind's silence to those on the ground, since it's obvious the Wind will not be cajoled.
      Readers want to be surprised on what happens next!

New Gods
      After the smoldering rope fades and the last plume of smoke dissipates into the oppressive air, I start back down the stairs.
      I don't know what I feel. Weeks ago I would have scoffed at the idea of gods and magic powers. Weeks ago I might have done the ritual without expecting an answer.
      I've changed.
      I might not like mystic winds and meddling gods, but now I expect them. I hate when things don't go according to plan. Halfway down the tower, I turn just enough to face the landscape and shake a fist at the air. "You made a choice tonight! Don't come moaning to me later if you don't like what I'm about to do!"
      Finally, a twist of wind, just enough to tickle my face. I look toward it and see a bright star. It appears to grow as I watch. Odd, that. Come to think of it, I don't remember seeing that star in the sky before. I cant my head for a different angle.
      Is that a tail of fire?
      My body freezes with the instant terror of an animal just before the world vanishes in an explosion of fire-white sparks and pain so intense I lose my grip on everything: on the stairs, on the tower, on vision, on sense. And then a voice speaks, a voice so deep I hear it with my body, not my ears. My flesh vibrates. The bones in my chest are surely too flimsy to hold my heart in place.
      "MINE."
      I think, "How strange that a voice so cold can sound so possessive." And then I think no more.
      Readers think it's high time for Magwen to redeem himself.

Empty Spaces
      The wind is whistling over the mouths of ceramic pots. Deep notes for the empty ones. High notes for those brimming over. At least one of the pots sounds like it has a hole in it . . . I can hear it wheezing. Poor thing.
      "But what does it mean?"
      "I don't care what it means. I just want her to be sound."
      "The lord is waiting outside. Should we let him in?"
      "No."
      What a symphony. But here's a vessel so deep it massages my head. I like listening to it.
      "She's waking."
      "How can you tell?"
      "Look."
      I open my eyes. Why is everything so flat? Oh, yes. The other eye didn't open with its twin. I try that. No luck. Ragna is hovering over me, though. She smells nice. Let's try my voice. "Where am I?"
      "You're in your bed in the Governor's apartments," Ragna says. "Magwen brought you here."
      I try flattening my ears, but like my eyes I have only partial luck.
      "You fell," Ragna explains. Behind her I resolve the fuzzy outlines of my captains and my shaman. "A star struck your head. Fortunately it was trying to pin you to the tower or you would have fallen forwards instead of backwards, and then we would be seeking a new Lord Governor."
      A star hit me? She must be kidding.
      "Magwen carried you down," Donal says from behind Ragna, and then a little miffed: "He got up the stairs first."
      I focus on Ragna again. "A star hit me?"
      "The strangest thing," Ragna agrees. "We have just been discussing its significance."
      "Why are you talking to her as if she's talking back?" Colblain asks.
      "Because she is," Negrat says.
      Silfie brings something into view: a bloody piece of ... metal? It looks almost shaped, with a point at one end. Had someone presented it to me elsewhere I would have assumed it forged. "That fell out of the sky and hit me?"
      "Yes," Ragna says.
      "I don't know what it means," Negrat says. "There is only the Wind, the Sea and the Land. There are no gods of the stars."
      "You're wrong," I say, thinking of that voice. That Voice. I think of the deep notes of empty pots. That god is the Emptiest pot of all.
      "You're right," Ragna says to me. "There is a god of stars. But he is not worshipped here, nor in the Godkindred Kingdom. There are islands out to sea that believe that the stars will unite us all . . . that they will gather all the believers of every religion and consume them."
      I believe that. You could give a great deal to that voice and not fill its emptiness. "But why me?"
      Ragna leans forward and whispers into my good ear, and I know now that she is the voice of the deep pot I'd heard earlier. "Because you will gather us together and consume us all."
      Readers are certain that the townspeople are completely confused by this turn of events.

When the Gods Tear You Apart
      "The people," I say. "We have to tell them something."
      "That's true," Negrat says. "What shall we say?"
      "They think you're dead," Ragna says.
      Dead! "Help me up," I say. "Whatever I announce I have to do it in person."
      No one moves toward me. Through the haze that blurs my vision my captains look dejected. I hear a mournful wind over the tops of the clay vessels in my mind.
      "You need to stay in bed, Mistress," Ragna says. "Your right side isn't moving."
      "You shouldn't have told her that!" Gavan says, appalled.
      "Why not? It is the truth," Ragna says.
      "My . . . right side . . . ? I know the eye isn't blinking and the ear's not moving, but the rest of me--" I stop talking. I try lifting my right hand. My right shoulder. Wiggling my toes. Nothing. True panic cramps my chest until I wheeze. "Is it permanent?"
      "We don't know," Ragna says. "We think not. You were completely limp when we brought you in . . . now, sometimes, your toe twitches."
      "Tell her about her face," Silfie says quietly.
      "There's a bandage over the right side of your face," Ragna says. "The metal struck your temple, between your ear and your eye. There was much mess."
      "But I have an eye left," I say.
      "Yes," Ragna says. "We are hoping you will still be able to see."
      This is too much. I must be showing it, because Gavan says, "This is cruel. She just woke up and you're telling her she might be paralyzed, blind and deaf when we just don't know."
      "She's our Mistress Commander," Silfie says. "She needs to know."
      I ignore it all. I can't handle the possibility of being a permanent cripple. Instead, I concentrate on what I can control. "Back to the business with the people. Tell them I'm alive and chosen by a new god and that I need time to consult with him and the old ones about . . . an arrangement."
      "Warring powers rarely agree to such things," Negrat says.
      "Well damned if I'm going to let the Stars have my right side and the Wind my left!" I say with a growl. "Go think of an grandiloquent way to say what I just said. Donal, Colblain, Gavan, think of a way to say the same thing that makes it sound mundane and tell the men. Oweir, your assignment is Lord Miltun. Be politic. Tell him I'll see him as soon as I'm able. Go."
      They leave. They leave me with the pots that have a deep voice and a beautiful contralto thrum. I would hold out my arms to them but one of them isn't working, so instead I let my frustrations and fear form the invitation. "Silfie, Ragna..."
      It takes them a few minutes to shed boots or cloaks and shift around, but then the firespice vixen is warming one side and the incense musk of the pard is pressing on the other. Is it a good thing that I can sense the pressure on that side?
      "It'll be okay," Silfie says into my working ear. "We love you."
      Readers think Oweir will be the least successful in his part of the mission to calm the people outside the room.