Jeremid nodded, steady as a rock. “Right.”
“Round up wagons. Start the wounded south as soon as they can travel. Commandeer all the civilian wagons you need. And the plunder wagons; we’ve sent enough plunder down the road. And send couriers to Kithro—separately, in case they run into trouble. Get them started right away and tell them to push it. Tell Kithro we’ll be wanting boats again soon.
“I’ll ride north to find the enemy commander. The only real ylvin army we’ve met so far, we’ve thrashed. It’s time to parley, while we’re winners.”
He scanned the rest of his staff. “Any comments or questions?”
All except Jeremid looked very sober, but only one spoke: “You’ll be a long way from help, Marshal. Suppose they don’t respect your flag of truce?”
“I heard several days ago that their commander is General Cyncaidh. And I know a little about him. He’s said to be an honorable man; certainly he’s not another Quaie.”
He waited, and when no one else spoke, dismissed them.
After the staff meeting, Macurdy visited the wounded again. Melody was sleeping, and he didn’t disturb her. Her aura was much stronger.
The army had brought “surgeons” with it—sawbones actually—one per cohort, and shamans and other healers of greater or lesser talent and skill. But judging by auras, the men in buildings assigned to ministration by Sisters were in notably better condition. Macurdy went to the officer in charge, an Indrossan, and took him aside.
“Major, are you aware that I’m a magician?”
“It is general knowledge, Marshal Macurdy.” The Indrossan was grave-faced.
“Have you noticed any difference between the wounded treated by the Sisters, and the rest of them?”
“No sir.”
He may have some skills, Macurdy told himself, but not much talent. “They’re doing a lot better,” he said. “Their auras show it.”
The major said nothing, but his aura showed disbelief, whether of auras or the Sisters’ better results wasn’t apparent.
“I’m going to have them minister to the rest of the men.”
The man looked stricken. “I— Marshal, Sisters can’t be trusted!”
Macurdy laid a large hand on the major’s shoulder. “You’ve had a hard day. When did you eat last?”
“I had an orderly bring me bread and meat at noon.”
“Get something to eat, and walk around outdoors. Don’t come back till tomorrow. That’s an order.”
The major looked near tears.
“You know about orders. Eat something and walk around camp. Look at something besides broken bodies. Have a drink, then get some sleep.” He put a hand on the major’s back, herding him along, and they left the building together.
It was Omara herself whom he took to see Melody. She’d tried before to see her, she told him, but a soldier had kept her out. “At your orders, Marshal. You distrust me. Why?”
“It’s nothing personal,” he said, and opened the door. Omara went to the bed and looked at the sleeping spear maiden for a long moment, examining her aura, he thought. “She doesn’t need me,” she told him. “By this time tomorrow she’ll be largely recovered, though she should rest at least another day.”
She looked at him coolly. “You are an enigma, Macurdy, a talented enigma.”
“Enigma. That’s a word I haven’t met. But distrust now . . . I suppose Sarkia told you my experience with the Sisterhood. I like and respect you, Omara, but you’ll excuse me if I have the colonel’s guard refuse you entrance to this room except when I’m with you.”
“Marshal, I have enough to do without troubling someone who doesn’t need me.”
They left Melody then, Omara going on to visit other patients. Macurdy paused outside Melody’s door, talking with the man on guard, then left for supper. Sarkia never believed you’d get Varia back, he told himself, regardless of what she said. And you’re the most powerful leader in the Rude Lands; she’d love to marry you to a Sister. If she thought Melody might stand in the way, or maybe even if Omara thought so . . .
He’d taken off his hillsman boots and was washing his socks when his Kullvordi orderly looked in. “Marshal, sir! Major Tarlok wants to see you! Says it’s urgent!”