Half the day, a few hours rest, and a number of reports later found Chris sitting at a rickety folding table in the officers' tent, ignoring papers and staring into an oil lamp lit against the creeping darkness. The light reflected sharply off of her gauntlets, which sat haphazardly on the table ahead of the papers, one atop the other like crossed arms. An ivory abacus occupied the near corner of the table.
With a shake of her head, Chris drew her mind back to the to the task at hand and looked down at the paper in front of her. She'd been working on unit reorganization - rebalancing their strengths, folding shattered units into others, and keeping track of how many brevet promotions would be needed for their commands. It was yet another exercise that reduced men to numbers; the companies were identified by a headcount and their commander. Their membership remained anonymous to Chris as she rearranged them; individual names would've been unnecessary information for the task.
She had numbers for the casualties, too - this many injured, that many dead, this many yet missing. Eight hours after the battle was too soon to have lists of casualties by name, and the army was too large for its captain to know every single member by name. The only names she'd have recognized for certain were the company commanders, and she had already heard a reckoning of their fates. But that didn't make the empty boots, beds, and chairs beside hearthfires any less cold and vacant.
Chris leaned back, distractedly brushing her dusty hands across the smooth beads of the abacus. That was how the military worked. The high command had to consider things at a level of impersonal distance - battles and strategy were equations to be balanced, companies as partitions to fill - or nothing could get done. And every commanding officer learned that some degree of detachment was necessary, or he'd be too choked with guilt or grief to command at all, to send men off to die, to make the decisions to leave men behind when the entire army was at stake. Impersonal frugality with lives was the nature of the job.
Chris pinched the bridge of her nose and sighed. She'd learned that detachment over the years, and mastered it today more than ever. Now she felt severed from herself as well, displaced and thin and cold. It seemed as if she were standing slightly behind herself, her front brushing just behind where her heart would be.
She couldn't stay here, in this cold place. At the end of the day, a leader had to remember that fifty men in a company were fifty men, fifty lives, fifty places at tables. If you let yourself feel they don't matter...
Chris had crossed paths with a man like that in the last war, who saw the death toll after a battle as simply a way of keeping score. If a situation forced him to give up three companies, he'd see it as a nuisance, not a sacrifice; to him, he'd not be losing anything of irreplaceable value. He led armies because he could, not because he had anything precious to protect.
He was working for Harmonia now, and she wished them joy with him; she herself would never put her army in the hands of such a man.
And she wouldn't let herself become his reflection.
Unwashed, still armored, sitting on an uncomfortable stool at a shaky table in a stuffy tent, Chris Lightfellow rubbed her eyes and tried to turn the numbers back into men.
Most of the companies still had their commanders, dusty and tired men and women who'd made it through with only minor injuries, but she knew who the casualties were, and the names and faces to put to them.
Douna of the Sixth was still missing. One of the few female knights besides Chris, she'd been a career soldier without a family, and steady, reliable commander. Chris hoped she'd turn up alive, but knew better than to expect much. Instead of the woman's pockmarked face, her mind's eye kept showing her a pair of empty boots.
The Twelfth Company had also lost their commander. Lassen had been a bright young man originally serving under Leo. He never kept silent if he felt a superior officer was making a mistake, a trait that made him a potentially promising officer, and a potential liability. Chris had transferred him to her own command, where she and Salome could keep an eye on him and judge which he was.
Well, the Goddess will be the one judging him now, Chris thought, and felt a knot in her gut. Honest regret, or guilt over not feeling regret? The feeling was gone too soon to be sure. But she'd found the edge of things, and she pressed on slowly, carefully, afraid she'd press too hard and land in something false.
There was one other casualty: the commander of the Seventh Company. Kirr had been found at last, with a twisted leg and crippling shoulder wound. The runner told her that he'd grinned despite the pain when they told him he was going home as soon as he was well enough to travel. Chris thought she knew why; he'd mentioned once that his eldest daughter was expecting. Kirr would be there to welcome his grandchild into the world.
She'd felt genuine relief when news of Kirr had come; he was under Percival's command, but the older man still had the warm face and demeanor that she remembered from when, years ago, she'd served under him.
A twinge from her shoulders made Chris realize she'd been slouching over the table. She shifted on the stool and stretched her arms, feeling the soreness of weary muscles.
She'd almost got it now, she was almost there... Chris turned her mind to two other officers who'd made it, to try feel the same relief over them that she did for Kirr. But Salome Harras and Borus Redrum might as well have been numbers as names, for all she felt.
They almost died, she reminded herself savagely, trying to shock herself out of indifference. She stared unblinking into the gaslight's flame, willing herself to feel something, to react, to care. Water prickled at the corners of her eyes, but it was only because of the bright light; whatever part of herself she'd reached thinking of Kirr was gone, slipped away without even a hollow feeling to mark its absence. She closed her eyes tightly, squeezing the false tears out to damp her eyelids.
She clenched her hands into fists in frustration with herself, making her nails bite sharply into her calloused palms. The pain gave her some small, bitter measure of satisfaction. You turned your back on them. You left them to die. And now you don't even care. Not that they almost died, not that they're alive. You only care about them as cogs in your clockwork army of numbers.
Maddeningly, treacherously, those words lacked the weight they ought to have had. She knew, and not just in the cold place, that she'd been forced to make that choice, and that feeling guilty over it was a disservice to those she'd left behind, those who trusted her judgment. Punishing herself for that, and for making the mistake over the ambush in the first place, was not just pointless; it would hamper her ability to lead in the future.
Trapped however I think about it, she thought angrily. And even her anger was cold, words chosen to expose herself to what she'd become. A glacier.
"Captain, are you in here?"
Chris opened her eyes at the sound of Percival's voice, but didn't look up at him. "I'm here," she responded quickly. "I've been doing some paperwork. Reorganizing the companies."
"Paperwork? I've got more for you here." A thick folder was slapped down in front of her. "I know that you fret so when there's a possibility that you might run out. This should tide you over for the next six years."
"Thanks ever so much," she returned dryly, still not looking up. "How come I never see you doing any?" She unfolded a hand to reach for a pen, and stopped, staring at her hand. Four deep indents cut across her palm. She hadn't noticed when they stopped hurting.
"Oh, I always slip mine into Borus's stack when he's not looking." He stopped. "I've just been from seeing him and Salome."
It hadn't even occurred to Chris to stop by and find out how they were doing. Turning over her hand, Chris began flicking abacus beads, setting up an arbitrary, pointless sum. "I... haven't had time yet."
"You haven't been to see them? Captain..." Percival cleared his throat, and she lifted her eyes to his face. His brows tightened in worry. "Chris, are you all right?"
Her fingers worked swiftly at the empty addition problem, beads clicking. "I'm fine."
"No, you aren't." His eyes searched her face.
"I said I'm fine," she responded shortly, meeting his gaze, and took up the pen. "And busy with paperwork, as you pointed out so thoughtfully."
"As you wish." He took a seat across from her at the table with a groan. "Blasted Lizards and their tunnels... the scouts haven't found any new ones yet. Tinto only took known routes to go to ground, but that could be to hide that they were using new ones. I don't think they were, though- they'd have come faster to the ambush if they could have, and moving that many men would leave quite a trail."
Chris put down the paperwork again; this was also business, and important. "Do we know if the unit that was bait signaled them somehow, or did we miss their scouts?"
"Probably the latter; the land's flat enough out here that a couple men could watch from the distance, and it would be easy to miss them - that's more or less what Salome thinks happened. After hearing the scout reports of where the Tinto army came up, he doesn't think withdrawing from the field would've made much difference in the long run - they'd have caught us eventually. This part of the Grasslands is worm-eaten with tunnels."
"Salome's heard the reports?" She shook her head. "What, is he trying to continue his duties from the infirmary? I can't see the surgeons being all that thrilled. Or cooperative."
Percival frowned slightly. "I thought you knew. He and Borus were sent on their way some time ago; they're resting in Borus's tent, set up out by where some of the others who've been ordered to sit quietly for the day are. Neither of them was badly hurt. Salome wrenched his arm when he fell off his horse, and then while he was fighting on foot, tripped over something and hit his head. Borus has a few bruised ribs from the horse that was on top of him, and his ankle's twice the size it should be, but he'll mend."
"Glad to hear it," Chris managed, hoping she sounded sincere. Granted, she hadn't thought to ask, but it was a bit irritating that no one had told her where her highest officers were. That she hadn't thought to ask wasn't promising, either. Frustrated, she spun a bead on the abacus.
"Poor Borus." Percival exhaled theatrically. "I think he was hoping you'd rush frantically to his bedside, clasping his hand in yours and tearfully professing the undying love for him you realized you had only when you were faced with losing him. I dare say it was a bit of a disappointment for the fellow when you didn't."
"I'm sorry to say that it never crossed my mind to do so." Percival was hassling her about Borus, a sign that he'd moved on from discussing business. Chris didn't particularly feel like chatting right now, especially about a certain pair of officers. Biting back irritation, she started paging through the paperwork Percival had given her and hoped her friend would leave.
His large, clean hand pressed down on the pages, stopping her. "Chris. Listen to me. Don't beat yourself up over this. We both know that feeling guilty won't help anything, and they're both alive and in one piece. More or less."
Startled to hear him echo her own earlier thoughts, Chris glanced back at his face, but there was none of the disgust she'd expect if he really knew what the problem was. He looked honestly concerned - Percival thought she felt earnest guilt and regret over Borus and Salome.
That was a charade she was not willing to keep up.
"It's not that," she told him quietly. Her left fist was clenched again; when she relaxed it, she saw the impressions of her nails in the dirty skin. "You've been to visit them-"
Annoyingly, Percival cut her off. "They don't feel that you abandoned them. Borus says he'd die a thousand deaths for you - and we both know he would do so happily, because he's Borus - and Salome said he was proud of his captain; he knew he could count on you to make the right choice, however difficult."
The falsehoods Borus and Salome had to believe to say such things made her feel sick. Percival kept talking, oblivious to the truth. "It's all right to visit them, Chris. You've nothing to be sorry for-"
She didn't deserve to be imbued with such honest, stirring motivations. She didn't want to be. "What's that got to do with anything?" she snapped. "I know I made the right choice. It wasn't even a choice. It's what any officer would do with her forces nearly trapped. I had to make it. I was the only one there," she added as an afterthought, cold, orderly thoughts supplying words that would wound.
Stung, Percival pulled back his hand. His face hardened. "My whole point is that none of us are blaming you. You face no recriminations from your friends."
"No one's blaming me. Good to know." She put a slight emphasis on the word "me", and was rewarded by a slight flinch from Percival. "Well, that has nothing to do with why I haven't gone to see them."
"Then why haven't you?" Percival demanded hotly. "You always stop by the infirmary after a battle, especially if any of the Six Mighty Knights is injured. I'd thought you were avoiding the infirmary..."
"Because I feel too guilty to face Borus and Salome?" Chris thought of the men she'd turned her back on, the friends she'd left to die because the lives of many more depended on her to make the right decision. Leaving them there hadn't been the betrayal. The cold anger ebbed, and disgust with herself rose in its place. She shook her head. "No, I don't." Rustling papers meaningfully, she turned back to the company assignments, shutting him out.
Percival refused to be dismissed. "Then why haven't you been to see them yet, captain?"
Chris did not take her eyes from the paper she wasn't reading. "I can't."
"This isn't like you at all, Captain. Don't you care about them?"
Chris glared through the paper. "I said I can't, Percival."
"Can't? Or won't? Lady Chris, what's wrong with you?" Percival slammed both his hands on the table, making it shudder under her elbows. "Think how they must feel - how Borus must feel, almost dying for you, and you don't even bother to see how he's recovering? He loves you, Chris. If he thought you didn't care whether he lived or died, it would kill him!
"They almost died today! It was a price they were willing to pay for Zexen. For you. That at least deserves some sort of acknowledgment. Can't you at least welcome them back?"
Chris slapped the papers on the table in frustration, more forcefully than she'd intended to. "They deserve to be welcomed back by their friend."
Silence followed. Chris flickered her eyes to the side, to see Percival's expression. He looked as if he'd just been struck.
"Are you saying you aren't their friend?" he asked slowly, as if he couldn't quite believe he was saying those words.
His words ought to have felt like a punch in the gut, but it was the fact that they didn't that actually hurt. She took a deep breath, pressing both palms against the edge of the table. "What I'm saying is that if I went over there right now, they'd be welcomed back by their captain. They'd get a slap on the back and a 'good work, soldier.' And..." A sudden sharp splinter in one palm made her inhale sharply. "And you're right, they deserve more than that. They deserve to be welcomed back by someone who's... happy to see them, because they're important people to her."
"I don't think I understand," Percival said hoarsely.
Chris pulled the splinter from her palm, searching for the words. Some things everyone knew and never spoke of, except the most indirect reference; giving voice to them seemed almost wrong. "Do you remember the first man who died under your command?" she asked quietly.
"I... no, I don't." Percival's voice was puzzled. He sighed, and Chris felt the table wobble. "I sometimes think I should, though."
Chris turned to meet his eyes. "Do you remember the tenth? Or the fiftieth? Do you feel you ought to? Did you feel as bad about them as you did about the first?"
Percival winced. "Well, no..."
It was a sore subject for any of them, but Chris continued relentlessly. "Did you feel the same about leading the men under you into today's battle, knowing some of them would die, as you did the first time? Did you know them as well as you knew the men under your first command?"
The muscles around Percival's eyes tightened, and Chris saw pain behind them. "We both know that if things stayed as sharp and fresh for the hundredth as the first, we'd break down. It's hard enough having to leave one of your men who you knew well behind, when your command is small enough that you know all of them well. If you felt the same about an entire company, it would be too much, so..."
"So we shut ourselves off, sometimes," Chris finished softly.
Percival sat very, very still for a moment. "That's what this is about, isn't it. That's what you meant by welcoming them as their captain."
An aching, cathartic silence hung between them, smoothing away the harsh words earlier said. Chris reached over to the abacus, her hand hovering over the final carry-over.
"We'll probably have an officer's meeting tomorrow morning, to discuss strategy and what to do about the Lizard situation," she said finally, fingers still an inch above the ivory. "I'll have to see them then. It might be easier in the morning." Or next week. Or never. "Maybe sleep will help." She knew better.
Percival did, too. "And if it doesn't? I think you should go see them tonight, Chris. Even if not all of you is there to welcome them."
She closed her eyes. "No... I don't want more lies. I don't want to look at them as soldiers instead of friends. They deserve better than that." With something painfully like hope, she realized that she felt the last. "They deserve better."
Percival shook his head. "It won't be a lie. It's a choice to approach them as people, rather than as fellow officers. Which is what it will be in the morning."
"This isn't going to be so easily fixed." Chris withdrew her hand from the untouched abacus, frowning sadly.
"No, it won't."
Silence rose again.
At last, Percival stood up, moving stiffly after sitting for so long. "Anyway, think about it. I've got some things I ought to take care of tonight; I'll see you later." He slipped out of the tent, the rasp of his armor joints strangely quiet.
Chris looked at the table in front of her for a long time. Then she, too, rose from her seat. She drew her hand across the black ivory, turning the unfinished sum to a meaningless peppering of beads on white spokes as she left the tent.
The camp at night was subdued but not silent, full of rustlings, footsteps, crackling of fires, murmurs, and sighs. It was a clear, hot night, and many of the men had eschewed stuffy tents to sleep under the stars. Most of them were asleep or nearly there, lying on bedrolls or just with their heads pillowed on their own coats. A few talked quietly among themselves, and near the side of the large tent allotted Borus, a card game was being played by the light of a stubby candle.
A couple of soldiers spotted her as she stood with her back to one of the low campfires, letting her eyes adjust. They saluted her, and she stopped to pass a few words with them. Glad to see you in one piece, she told them. You fought bravely. Words that had to be said by an officer in a place like this, even if she didn't quite feel them at the moment.
Light glinted off teeth and eyes, and made white bandages glow as she drew close to those who wore them. She shook the good hand of an archer whose bow arm was in a sling, chuckled in agreement with an infantryman's assessment of the Tinto ambush as cowardly, and crouched down to hear the wheezy words of a man whose companions said had a mild concussion.
"They won't let me sleep," he complained with a gaptoothed grin, when she asked how he was faring. "Shake me awake ever' time I get ter the good part of a dream."
"It's better than not waking up at all," she pointed out. "You can dream all you want later."
"You can ask the quartermaster for my share," one of his friends said. "Next time he's handing out the monthly ration of dreams."
They'd all laughed, including Chris, to her faint surprise.
Weaving her way around a maze of sleeping bodies, Chris did her duty to the men under her command as she made her way to men she owed something more to. It was hard to make out faces, and it was even darker once she reached her goal. Borus's tent sheltered more tonight than just her fellow officer and his squire; there were at least four cots inside. She knew Borus only by his profile, a distinctive shadow against the tent wall glowing from the card players' candle. He was sitting up in his cot. No shock of recognition struck her; it felt more like an afterthought that identified the man as one she was looking for. She held back for a moment.
Shaking off a growing sense of trepidation, she stepped towards the familiar silhouette. It turned to face her as she approached.
"Lady Chris?" It was Salome who spoke, and Borus's shadow jumped.
"Goddess, don't do that, Salome," the second man complained, pressing a hand to his side and wincing. "It's alarming when you know who's here without sitting up to see them. Lady Chris. It's... good to see you."
She nodded uncertainly. The earnest emotion beneath his words was awkward enough to face under normal circumstances; here, it made him seem even more removed.
Salome sat up slowly from the cot beside Borus's. "Good evening, Lady Chris." He shifted over, offering her a seat at the foot of the low camp bed.
Uncomfortably, she took the offered place and shook their hands in turn. Bare of gloves, they seemed hot, matching the stuffy night. Or are mine just cold? "Hello, Borus, Salome." She searched for more words and found nothing but empty pleasantries. She settled for asking a question. "How did you know it was me?"
"I knew you from the sound of your gait," he said simply. "You step too heavily to be Percival, and any lower officer would've announced himself. Borus, should you really be doing that in your condition?"
Borus had bent over and was fussing with something near the head of both cots. "I'm fine." He cursed as something rattled away; a moment later, there was a brief red glow, and then the light of a pair of candles washed over the three of them.
Chris winced at the sudden brightness. She'd been more secure in the darkness; it would've kept her expression hidden. Now she felt exposed and in uncomfortably close quarters.
"I was merely asking," Salome replied mildly. "I suppose you've had a busy evening, Captain?"
She nodded. "I'm sorry I didn't stop by earlier. I'm glad to see..." She stopped. They deserved more than a concerned officer's duty, but she couldn't think of anything honest to say to these familiar strangers.
His eyes flickering over her face, Salome picked up the thread of conversation smoothly. "We've been hearing the scout reports. We may not have our finger on the pulse of things, but we've got a general idea of what's going on."
"Hah, yes. And Percival - " Borus said the name with a certain amount of exasperation " - decided it would be funny to send a couple of the squires to update us on camp gossip. I've learned more about the baggage train than I ever wanted to know."
Chris tried to chuckle, and the quiet conversation continued on with little help from her. All in all, it felt like being enthusiastically greeted by someone unfamiliar on the street, and trying to leave the talking to them while working out whether or not you were supposed to remember them from somewhere.
She nodded in the right places, and once or twice tried to add things of her own. But at each attempt, their eyes would turn to meet hers, and her words became stumbling, stilted, wooden things. This won't work, she thought unhappily, feeling more estranged each time.
Then Salome would gently shift the conversation, talking of something himself, or calling on Borus to share some anecdote or idea. She caught him eyeing her thoughtfully from time to time, but carefully; he'd seemed to notice his direct gaze made her flinch.
Borus plunged on through everything, refreshingly oblivious. He grumbled, laughed, and overall was so typically Borus that Chris felt it was impossible not to realize it was him.
The subject found its way to the weather. The summer so far had been hot and wet, following a mild winter. Borus shrugged off speculation of an early fall and harsh winter. "Who can say? Percival would probably pretend to read a caterpillar's stripes for it, but weather is unpredictable."
"You can still get a sense of how the seasons will change," Chris put in, feeling herself on firmer conversational ground. Weather was the universal conversational fallback in Zexen, a nation of merchants and farmers. "Almanac writers do fairly well with long-range forecasts, especially further inland."
Borus shook his head. "They don't do so well with northern weather. My family has trading interests in Harmonia, and some of what we deal in comes from near their northern coast."
Chris tilted her head. "Agriculture?"
"Furs, so father's always going on about the winter weather. If it's too cold, too many hunters die; too warm, and you can't trust the ice bridges."
"I'd heard Crystal Valley's weather has always been rather mild and regular," Salome said, frowning thoughtfully. "Perhaps the local stability upsets things along the outer parts of the Kingdom."
The three fell silent, considering.
Finally Borus yawned and stretched, wincing as he jarred a bruised rib. "Well, whatever the reason is, I'm glad we don't have to plan a campaign there. At least in Zexen, winter will come when it does, then spring again, and summer, and it all repeats itself."
Salome sighed. "I hope Percival's caterpillar grants us an easy winter, for the farmers' sake. It's small consolation to hungry families to know that however cold it is, the thaw will come eventually."
Chris found she'd caught Borus's yawn, covering her mouth hastily as it escaped, making her eyes water. "Excuse me. It seems the hour's caught up with me. And you two are supposed to be resting today, too."
"Good night, then, Lady Chris," Borus said. He reached out a hand to shake hers. "I'm... very glad you came by." His grip was firm and warm, and there was nothing but the usual fervent loyalty and admiration in his eyes.
She turned to bid farewell to Salome. The strategist's expression was, as usual, harder to read. "It was good of you to stop by." He smiled gently, briefly clasping her hand in both of his. "Good night, Lady Chris."
With a wave to the card players, Chris made her way quietly past the snoring bodies outside. The night was already cooler, and Chris hoped those who'd opted to sleep outdoors wouldn't regret it. At her tent, she paused to look over the sleeping camp, absently rubbing her hands together to keep them warm. The Rune prickled, wanting to speed the healing of the wounds and scars around them, but Chris quieted it. Right now, it was better to leave things to heal in their own time.