wondering whether Commander Jun was married. He had to be or, at least, had to have a significant woman in his life. She glanced in his direction once more, and her legs collided with the thorny branches of a low-growing shrub. She untangled her feet, feeling stupid and hoping he hadn’t seen.
While soldiers were putting up tent poles, Shanti dropped the broken shovel next to a functional one and picked up the good one without anyone noticing. She tapped a soldier on the back. “Come with me.”
By the time she left the camp accompanied by four other soldiers, Shanti possessed the map, three serviceable shovels, and a pickax in excellent condition.
They climbed to a stony promontory jutting low from the mountain, with a good view of the area. It was the perfect place for a guard point. No digging would be required, and cover was plentiful. The four men examined the map while Shanti scanned their surroundings. Below them were roads, grasslands, a town, and a winding river. The sound of a rip caused an icy spasm to rush up her spine.
“It’s his fault, Commander Shanti, he—”
“I don’t care whose fault it is.” She carefully took the map away. A gaping tear ran down its center. “It seems I have four volunteers for guard duty tonight.”
Maps as detailed as the one in her hands were hard to come by. And expensive. Commander Jun was going to be angry.
*
Bayla watched the soldiers work together with speed and efficiency. Strong youths in the service of her father—the backbone of the Willovian forces, doing what needed to be done. And she would rule them one day.
Brown and green tents nestled among the trees—a small one for each of the commanders, and larger ones to accommodate twelve soldiers each. Men hammered nails into the roof of a wooden pavilion. A tree stump marked the middle of camp. Beyond the tents, horses grazed in a roped-off enclosure.
Several men were cooking something in pots over a fire. A scrawny fellow plucked feathers from a headless chicken. He was the only person besides Bayla not wearing a uniform.
Food was set out, and the soldiers gathered for their meal. Commander Gy went first, and the rest followed. The men sat on rocks and timbers, chatting and eating. Gy came over to her, carrying a plate of food that contained no meat.
“Rega Bayla,” he said, “let me show you where you’ll be sleeping.”
They entered a tent the size of her stallion’s stall at the castle. It smelled of mildew. Gy gave her the plate and excused himself, saying that much work needed to be done.
The tent was the color of mud and altogether unfit for the daughter of the king. She usually ate from plates rimmed in gold, not from a wooden trencher. It would be understandable if her stay was to be short, but the pavilion indicated otherwise. Something was wrong here.
Bayla wondered about her father, and for the first time, she worried about his safety. She knew that the king was alive. If anything should happen to him, the monks would find her immediately.
The monks, forever the servants of Willovia’s rulers, were soothsayers, prophets of doom. If her father died, they would take charge of the fallen king’s body and march it through the city of Erbaut before burial in the royal catacombs. Then she would be queen, and the monks would become her advisers, inexorably by her side, telling her strange things about the future. She hated them more than she hated Shanti.
“Rega . . .” Someone was standing outside her tent. “May we come in?”
“You may enter.”
Two soldiers carried a cot, blankets, soap, and a storage cabinet into her tent, then left her alone.
Bayla touched the lumpy pillow and the coarse, woolen blanket—so different from the fine bedding she was used to. The gritty soap smelled like sawdust. What was going on? Why hadn’t she been informed of the measures put in place for her safety in case Willovia was ever attacked? Even Shanti had known of the plan to take her to the
While soldiers were putting up tent poles, Shanti dropped the broken shovel next to a functional one and picked up the good one without anyone noticing. She tapped a soldier on the back. “Come with me.”
By the time she left the camp accompanied by four other soldiers, Shanti possessed the map, three serviceable shovels, and a pickax in excellent condition.
They climbed to a stony promontory jutting low from the mountain, with a good view of the area. It was the perfect place for a guard point. No digging would be required, and cover was plentiful. The four men examined the map while Shanti scanned their surroundings. Below them were roads, grasslands, a town, and a winding river. The sound of a rip caused an icy spasm to rush up her spine.
“It’s his fault, Commander Shanti, he—”
“I don’t care whose fault it is.” She carefully took the map away. A gaping tear ran down its center. “It seems I have four volunteers for guard duty tonight.”
Maps as detailed as the one in her hands were hard to come by. And expensive. Commander Jun was going to be angry.
*
Bayla watched the soldiers work together with speed and efficiency. Strong youths in the service of her father—the backbone of the Willovian forces, doing what needed to be done. And she would rule them one day.
Brown and green tents nestled among the trees—a small one for each of the commanders, and larger ones to accommodate twelve soldiers each. Men hammered nails into the roof of a wooden pavilion. A tree stump marked the middle of camp. Beyond the tents, horses grazed in a roped-off enclosure.
Several men were cooking something in pots over a fire. A scrawny fellow plucked feathers from a headless chicken. He was the only person besides Bayla not wearing a uniform.
Food was set out, and the soldiers gathered for their meal. Commander Gy went first, and the rest followed. The men sat on rocks and timbers, chatting and eating. Gy came over to her, carrying a plate of food that contained no meat.
“Rega Bayla,” he said, “let me show you where you’ll be sleeping.”
They entered a tent the size of her stallion’s stall at the castle. It smelled of mildew. Gy gave her the plate and excused himself, saying that much work needed to be done.
The tent was the color of mud and altogether unfit for the daughter of the king. She usually ate from plates rimmed in gold, not from a wooden trencher. It would be understandable if her stay was to be short, but the pavilion indicated otherwise. Something was wrong here.
Bayla wondered about her father, and for the first time, she worried about his safety. She knew that the king was alive. If anything should happen to him, the monks would find her immediately.
The monks, forever the servants of Willovia’s rulers, were soothsayers, prophets of doom. If her father died, they would take charge of the fallen king’s body and march it through the city of Erbaut before burial in the royal catacombs. Then she would be queen, and the monks would become her advisers, inexorably by her side, telling her strange things about the future. She hated them more than she hated Shanti.
“Rega . . .” Someone was standing outside her tent. “May we come in?”
“You may enter.”
Two soldiers carried a cot, blankets, soap, and a storage cabinet into her tent, then left her alone.
Bayla touched the lumpy pillow and the coarse, woolen blanket—so different from the fine bedding she was used to. The gritty soap smelled like sawdust. What was going on? Why hadn’t she been informed of the measures put in place for her safety in case Willovia was ever attacked? Even Shanti had known of the plan to take her to the
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