Chapter 9: Not Yours

The capital road was five days by wagon and two by hard riding.

We did it in three.

Sabine rode in a closed carriage behind us, sulking, with a company of the Marshal's guards riding drag.

I rode Dumpling beside the Commander the whole way.

Nobody said a word about it.

On the second night a spike of cold shot through my feet.

It was the kind you get from standing too long on frozen ground.

I knew he had been out in the snow without his boots.

I walked out of my tent in my nightshirt.

I found him at the edge of the camp, staring at the stars.

I put my own boots on his feet.

"You'll lose toes," I told him.

"I did not feel them."

"I did, you idiot. Stop standing in snow."

The guards saw, and the guards told.

By the time we reached the capital, every officer in the Marshal's war council had heard the news.

The Butcher of Karsk Pass took orders from a mule driver.

The council hall was a long room of black stone at the top of the Marshal's keep, and it was freezing.

Twenty officers sat on either side of a table the length of a cart.

At its head sat High Marshal Hadrian Crane, with Sabine beside him in a fresh grey gown.

I was told to wait outside.

I did not wait outside.

I walked in behind the Commander, past two astonished guards, and stopped at the foot of the table.

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