Vivian watched the ground before her from the thin slit in her bonemask, blinked to clear her vision, and cast her gaze over every inch of the snow that she could see. The obvious figures of twistedmen, Thyran’s shock troops, weren’t the only danger. Movement could mean tunneling. She watched for the slightest change, analyzing each shift of the snow to see if it went against the wind.
The cold was fine. Poram and Letar had both blessed her at her reforging. Now Vivian could face the blizzard with no worse than mild discomfort, just as she could stand in a fire for an hour and come away with no worse than a nasty sunburn. The monotony of the watch itself was the danger, and the weather made it worse. Snow clouded the sharpest vision after a while. Visions appeared in the cold. Voices rode the wind. It would have been easy to lose herself.
She did lose track of the time, until another figure approached her position on the walls.
Only the Sentinels and the knights had the endurance to be sentries for very long in the storm. Not many of those had blessings to match Vivian’s. Katrine was wrapped in wool and fur until she looked twice her size. Only the amethyst-hilted sword at her waist would have given her identity away if Vivian hadn’t known who else was out there with her. She still shivered.
“All calm on your circuit?” Vivian asked.
“All calm. You make an excellent landmark, Commander.”
“I do my best.” Vivian peered at the other Sentinel, observing what she could between fur hood, wool scarf, and bonemask. Katrine was pale, but she’d always been pale. The droop in her shoulders was more indicative. “You’ve reached your limit.”
“So have you,” said a voice from the stairs behind them.
Vivian didn’t turn when she recognized the speaker. Nor was she surprised that she hadn’t heard the approach: Emeth was the most silent-moving of the Sentinels she knew, particularly when snow muffled her steps. “Well—” she began.
“Well, you’ve been out here two shifts, and you’ll be no damn good if you fall asleep on your feet. Katrine, love, you’re damned near blue. Alyan’s about ten steps behind me. We’ll be fine while you two get some blood into your fingers.”
“I’ll ignore the insubordination, then,” said Vivian.
“Good. Olvir said his tent’d have stew ready in a couple minutes if you want to stop in.”
I wouldn’t trust your fingers near a carving knife just now,Ulamir put in.
Vivian’s aide was skilled in many things. Cooking was not one. “I’m told I make illustrious company,” she said and let Katrine take the lead.
Wizards took care of the inside of the camp as well as the outside. Down off the walls, the wind was already less fierce, but a transparent, faintly yellow shield blocked the rest of it, leaving only the air necessary for breathing. Glowing saffron-colored crystals every few yards served as anchors. A head-sized garnet sphere sat at the middle of the camp, radiating heat to two circles of tents.
The wounded and those who cared for them got the closest spots to the flame orb. The healthy soldiers took the outside, supplementing magic with braziers, fires, and body heat.
Olvir’s tent was large, lit within and full of song. The smell of cooking food drifted out along with the music, making Vivian’s stomach growl. Ithadbeen a long watch.
“Come in, please!”
She’d always admired Olvir’s voice, which had the clear depth of a great horn. It was perfect for shouting orders across noisy battlefields. Now it cut cleanly through the wind. In its own way, it was as much welcome—as much shelter—as the light and the scent of stew.
* * *
Swords often gave Sentinels away. Bonemasks and layers of furs could conceal other people’s identities, but a Sentinel’s blade was hard to mistake for any other. The amethyst in Katrine’s Coran glinted in the brazier’s light, and Olvir only took a moment longer to connect the sapphire with Vivian.
He’d seen her here and there since they’d talked, but both of them had always been very occupied with their duties as the camp prepared itself for the storm. As she pushed back her hood and unstrapped the bonemask, leaving her charcoal-rimmed eyes bare, Olvir found himself at a loss for words. Having spoken of weighty matters, it was hard to find his path to the lighter ones.
Fortunately, singing took care of it. There were five others in the tent, and two of them were silent, but Morgan and the two baritones with her were vigorously making up for the lack.
“O that my love were in my arms,” the verse wound to a conclusion, the singers’ low tones providing a comforting counter to the high shrieking of the wind beyond the walls, “and I in my bed again.”
“Not that I’d insist on a bed,” said one of the men, tipping Morgan a wink.
Vivian laughed. “That’s the difference between twenty and forty, good man,” she said. “I’d take the bed in a heartbeat right now, with love or without.”
“So would I, if I’d been standing out for a day,” said the other man who’d been singing. He dipped the ladle into the stew and held it up, offering the handle. “Come get ’round a bit of turnip and let’s-call-it-bacon.”
The two women stepped forward, but then Katrine stopped and turned, peeling off her bonemask in the meantime. She tilted her head slightly, in the manner of a hunting hawk, and studied the men who hadn’t been singing. “I’m afraid I need to ask who you are.”
Olvir hadn’t recognized them either. They’d come in with the others, back from refreshing the lights. Their faces looked vaguely familiar, but he couldn’t place them, particularly as they’d kept their hoods raised and were half-buried in piles of fur. He’d thought the cold must have lingered for them—some felt it more easily than others—and hoped they’d feel better after stew.
“Why?” asked one. He had a strange voice, low and clotted. That might have been his wrappings or an earlier injury, but given the way Katrine was acting… Olvir rose to his feet.
