She nodded.
“Cadmus, you old bastard,” he growled, whirling around and kicking a bucket stowed in the corner. It sailed across the tent, hit the canvas, then fell to the ground with a hollow clang. “It’s alright. It’s alright.” He raked his fingers through his hair. “They’ll be wearing their jackets over them anyway. Have them button up to their chins.”
“Yes, sir,” she said, setting down the cutlass and standing. “Only, I left my jacket behind in Barrimore.”
“Get another.”
“There are no others. I asked.”
Evander snapped his head up; his lips parted. She would glow like an ember on black velvet—the first soldier the Ashkendors saw, the first they shot. He couldn’t give her his jacket; it was far too large. Her range of motion would be hindered, her hands covered by the heavy sleeves.
“Alright, then,” he said. “Take my shirt.”
Samara’s eyes widened. “What?”
He pulled his magic shirt over his head and tossed it on the bed, trading it for a tight black undershirt.
“I can’t take it!” Samara protested. “It’s yours.”
“It’s yours now.”
“But it won’tfit me.”
“Try it.”
“It’s too big!”
“Try it.”
Looking petulant, Samara snatched up the shirt and yanked it over her head. It shrank instantly, the shoulders narrowing, the sleeves shortening. She glared at Evander. “Captain, I am not wearing your magic shirt.”
“You are, and that’s an order. Now get out of here so I can get ready.”
“If you are killed and I survive, your wife will murder me anyway, so it won’t make any difference.”
Buckling the red vest over his chest, Evander huffed a laugh. “That may be true.”
“Please, please, Captain,” she pleaded, her eyes shining with tears. “I can’t let you give me this. I can’t deal with the guilt …”
“Samara!” he barked. She shut her mouth; a tear dropped off her eyelashes.
“You are a child,” he said gently. “You do not need to feel guilt when a grown person protects you. I am a man. You are a little girl. Wear the shirt.”
“Yes, sir,” Samara said quietly. She set the cutlass down and ran out of the tent.
The second she was gone, Evander collapsed onto the cot and covered his face with his hands. He took all his emotions and pulled them into one tight knot in his chest, then shoved them aside. He had faced worse battles than this and survived them all. There was no reason he wouldn’t survive a minor skirmish tomorrow. No reason.
He marveled that, just weeks ago, he’d sworn he would never go to battle again. Yet here he was, not only flying into the hail of scattershot, but doing so with a Sennalaith insignia on his sleeve.
Love could drive a man, smiling, into insanity.
Once dressed, he shrugged on his jacket and meandered through the humming camp toward the dragon paddocks. Hera was asleep, curled on the ground, her heads snoring in harmony.
“Hello, my darling,” Evander said, crouching and scratching her brow. Her right head perked up first, then nudged her left head awake. She jumped up, dragging her still sleeping middle head along the ground, and pounced on him like a gigantic terrier whose master has just returned from work. Evander tumbled onto the grass, smiling, as Hera planted her huge clawed foot on his chest and sniffed him.
The middle head roused drowsily, hissing. It blinked at him, then gave him a small nudge of affection before bending its neck around and falling asleep again.
“You need to be very good tomorrow, and very brave. Can you do that for me?”
