I brood through the afternoon and into the early evening. I am still brooding when a soldier appears at my tent flap and is admitted by Ragna.
“Mistress Commander,” he says after saluting. “There is a messenger outside for you from Master General Nedwin.”
My brows lift. “Let him in.”
Ragna falls back behind my shoulder as I sit behind my camp desk. A smartly dressed male in unmarked leathers is escorted in by my wary soldier. He’s a good-looking fellow, at least four or five bloods. His demeanor is proud; by the maintenance of his gear and the crispness of his posture he is well-disciplined, much more so than I like to see in my opponents.
“Yes?” I asked.
The male bowed. “The Master General requests a meeting.”
A meeting. Not a parley. Not an audience. Interesting. “Such a meeting might be possible on the right terms,” I say.
“Outside of town and not in your camp. Accompanied by ten soldiers each. The soldiers may be armed, though not with ranged weapons. You and he will bring no weapons,” the messenger says. “The time, tomorrow at noon. The location will be marked tonight; you may overfly it at your leisure in the morning if you wish to scout it.”
My brows rise. “Those terms are acceptable. You may tell the Master General that I will see him then…providing I approve the location.”
The male bows. “I will relay your answer, ma’am.”
I watch him withdraw followed by my soldier. At my side Ragna stirs.
“Do you know this man?”
“I know of him,” I say. “He took Shamreine and Dupoan provinces. He has a reputation for shrewdness and sometimes for ruthlessness. And of course, here he is the Bandit King. If he has a sense of honor, it doesn’t match up with any I understand.”
“And yet you will go,” she says.
“Of course,” I say. “I want to know what he’s thinking.”
“Even though,” she says, “killing you would stop this entire conflict before it is born?”
I shake my head slowly. “I am important,” I say. “I am a useful figurehead. But the sentiments are already roused in the people. If I live, I will lead them. But if the Godson kills me, I will become their symbol. Either way, Ragna…there’s no stopping this now. And they would have to be stupid not to realize it.”
“From your mouth to the ears of the gods,” she murmurs.
* * *
“Nedwin,” I say.
“Angharad.” He nods toward the low table. “Honor my board.”
I nod and sit on one side, and he takes the other, and we study one another, Nedwin and I. The Bandit King is small and stocky, with a short heavy torso, narrow shoulders and hips, thick hands and powerful muscles. He moves with a ponderous grace…and I can’t tell what he is. Short-muzzled, tall-eared, tailless, black-pelted, his hair cropped short. His eyes are a startling turquoise. I wonder how many times past “Godkin” his family kept intermarrying to produce such a melange of features.
And old-fashioned, Nedwin. I hadn’t seen a real war-board in ages, the low parley tables marked with checkered squares meant to divide enemies in detente. As required, there are two game pieces between us, one bone-colored and one silver. As host, he is the bone; I am, as honored guest, the precious metal.
“So,” he says. “Here we are.”
“Yes,” I say.
He looks at me with those clear gemstone eyes. “I would speak plainly.”
“And leave the circumlocutions to the politicians?” I say. “Gladly. Please, continue.”
“I hear you have set yourself up as a goddess to these people,” he says.
I wince. “That’s…an overstatement.”
“Is it true?” he asks. “Are you godlike in your powers?”
“Even if I was,” I say, “I would not use them against people who could not reply.”
He arches a brow. “You seem to say the Godson does not act as a god would.”
“The Godson is striving for godhead,” I say. “He is no god yet, or he would not have created this…this wasteful mess.”
Nedwin says nothing.
“Surely,” I say, “you see it too? He’s mad. He’s overextending himself, and we pay for it in blood and lives.”
“Yes,” he says after a moment.
My eyes narrow. “Why are you here, Nedwin?”
“Because the Godson has commanded it.”
“I meant here,” I say. “At the war-board. Talking to me.”
“I wanted to see if the rumors were true,” he says.
I arch a brow. “Which ones?”
“So you know there are that many,” he says. He isn’t laughing. I wish he’d laugh.
“The heads of pacifying armies are always the target of rumors, Nedwin,” I say. “You know that.”
“They say you have fornicated with the natives,” he says.
What the wild pards did to me was a little more violent than fornication, and what little I’ve thought of doing to Ragna hardly counts, so I say, “My, how salacious. But alas, no beautiful natives have thrown themselves at my feet and begged for my carnal attentions.”
“So then there is no child,” he says.
Now, I realize, I must decide. How much of my life to share; how much of it to keep for myself. I would prefer my privacy, but I know better. If I win this, if I become whatever it is Shraeven wants as a ruler, then there will be almost no secrets I can call my own. “There is a child. Or there will be.”
He glances at me. “You don’t look burdened.”
Still so old-fashioned; I didn’t think anyone used that euphemism for “pregnant” anymore. As euphemisms go, it always struck me as a failure anyway. “The egg,” I say, “is being tended by my soldiers.”
“So the father is of the Kingdom.”
I eye him. After a moment, I say, “You disappoint me, Nedwin. I didn’t think you’d be interested in trivial gossip.”
He looks at me. “It is not trivial to know the parentage of the heir to the rival for the leadership of a country.”
I study him, then incline my head. “That score was yours.”
“Thank you,” he says. “The parent?”
“The baby,” I say, “will be Godkin. The father was not one of the ten that made me Godkin.” More or less true. I have cougar in me, not pard.
“So,” he says. “Acceptable to us. But to the natives?”
“His father was also a native,” I say, meeting his eyes.
He doesn’t flinch, doesn’t pause…just returns my gaze and then nods once. I am relieved that I don’t have to explain.
“So,” I say. “Are you satisfied?”
“Yes,” he says. “Though I am not glad. You are as much of a threat as I feared, not because of your followers, but because of your status. The Godson would do well to deal with you at the table, rather than to crush you…but I fear he will not hear my words. I will tell them to him anyway.”
“You are not wasteful of your men,” I say. “I appreciate that. Tell me, Nedwin. Why did you turn bandit for the Godson? There’s no honor in fighting like brigands. Terrorizing commoners who have no weapons to lift against you. It doesn’t fit.”
He looks at me with his gem-clear eyes and says, “My family means everything to me, Angharad.” He stands and bows. “Thank you for honoring my board.”
I stand and mirror him. “Thank you for the parley.”
And ah, the sorrow that falls on me then as I walk away. The sorrow, and the anger, and the sense of being trapped. Is there no way out of being forced to fight my own countrymen? Because that’s what we’re barreling toward. Once we commit to that act, there is no going back…for any of us.