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“His son wants to wait for him, too. And to be honest, I’m happy to be rid of the insolent little ratbag, if you’re willing to let him stay, although I doubt he will if he knows we’re going to the Gathering. He wouldn’t pass up a chance to be in the heart of political power.” Tuart lowered his voice, as if afraid of being overheard. “But even so, I urge you to come with me. General Hurst has gone off on his own, without Gathering consent or permission, and you have no obligation to wait for him. He certainly wouldn’t do the same for you.”

“Ah,” Carvill’s voice was just as soft, “but the Hursts are powerful and have a very long memory. If I don’t wait for him, with supplies in hand, I will be lucky not to wake one night with a knife in my back.”

Tuart sighed. “That’s your decision to make, but don’t discount Luc Franck’s sword at your neck in your equation. Because that is a man I would not like to be near when he sees what Hurst has done to the Cervantes plains.”

Luc almost missed the next words, his fury deafening him as it rose up from his chest.

“What do we do with the scout?” Carvill asked. “She’s sat here quietly, listening to everything we just said, and now she knows about this camp.”

“Nothing we’ve said is secret, and all of it will be more than obvious in a day or two. As for knowing about the camp, she came in blindfolded, so she can’t lead anyone to it. When we’re far enough away tomorrow on our way home, I’m letting her go.” Tuart’s tone brooked no argument. “At least if I do encounter Franck, I can honestly say she’s not a captive.”

“If she’s dead, you could say the same.” Carvill must have lit a lantern as he spoke, because suddenly a light bloomed and the shadows of the two men were thrown across the tent wall.

“I don’t kill for no good reason. I thought you didn’t, either.”

Carvill lifted his shoulders. “Fine. But make sure there’s no way she can lead anyone back here.”

Tuart didn’t respond to that.

It was fully dark now, and Luc pulled the hood up on his cloak, tugged the scarf tighter around his neck.

Tuart was leaving the tent, a hand gripped around Kym’s arm, as Luc rounded the side of it.

Kym had her other arm curled up tight against her chest, and Luc guessed that Carvill had hurt her hand.

He would remember that. Because that should not go unanswered.

Kym had answered truthfully, but nothing she had to say was to the Rising Wave’s detriment. He would still need to find out why she’d walked into the Jatan camp on her own, but she had paid for it with the damage to her hand, and he could only think back to her face when she’d looked over at the Jatan soldiers back in northern Kassia—how shaken she was—to think she had been driven by some kind of strong emotion.

He followed behind Tuart as he hauled Kym to a tent which turned out to be the healer, thinking slightly better of the man that at least he was trying to get her help.

When the healer had done what she could to fix what turned out to be a mangled finger, Kym was pushed into a tent and a guard set to watch her.

Decisions, decisions, Luc thought as he moved back to the tree where he’d left his things.

He had just gathered them up when he heard the scuff of a boot nearby.

A bird began its evening call, a longing, melodic thrill, and Luc turned toward it with a grin.

He was already moving when he remembered the scarf around his neck.

He pulled it off and stuffed it into his pocket, before returning the bird call.

“Luc?” Massi’s face appeared out of the the darkness. “We found your horse, so we knew you were somewhere here.”

They embraced, a quick hug that had the tension in Massi’s back ebbing away.

“Can you believe it?” she whispered, pointing at the camp.

He chuckled at the disbelief in her voice.

He followed her away from the tents, along a deer path that led down a slope to a small clearing.

About ten of his unit were packed into it. Rafe and Kikir were among them. He guessed Massi had left Revek with the others.

He gripped hands that stretched out to him in greeting, exchanged smiles.

“They have Kym, she’s alive.”