her duty even when the duty was unpleasant. Even when everyone would say Wyldon had so little confidence in her that he was tucking her away behind the front lines.
‘Who’s to command this place, sir?’ she asked, forcing her voice to remain even, her features smooth and calm.
Wyldon raised his brows. ‘You are.’
For a moment her ears felt very strange. That feeling promptly spread to the rest of her. ‘Forgive me, my lord, but – I could have sworn that you said I will be in command.’
‘I did.’ Wyldon’s eyes were direct. ‘It’s work, Mindelan. Half of the men I can spare to build and guard the camp are convicts. They agreed to fight if we took them from the quarries and mines. They must be watched and further trained. All have mage marks to expose them as convicts if they run, so you shouldn’t worry about desertions, unless they’re fool enough to go to Scanra. The other half of the men I could find’ – he shrugged – ‘I did my best.’
Kel looked at her hands as thoughts tumbled wildly in her head. She voiced the first thought that came to mind. ‘I expected to serve under an experienced warrior. In combat.’
‘You are more useful with the refugees. You will have advisors. Duke Baird will reside with you temporarily, to help in matters both medical and social,’ Wyldon said drily.
Panic rose in her chest. ‘Sir, I’m only eighteen; I don’t know anything about refugee camps! Everyone says it, first-year knights are so green, we’re better off ploughed and planted with something useful!’
‘You are not a typical first-year,’ Wyldon replied firmly. ‘The Knight Commander of the King’s Own trained you in matters like supply, the building and defence of a fort, and how to command. You helped him recruit new personnel for the Own, and he says your work in supply and logistics is superior.’
The words fell out before Kel could stop them: ‘He also trained me for battle.’ About to apologize, she closed her lips tightly. She had meant it.
Wyldon rubbed his bad arm, staring into the distance for a long moment before he said, ‘If this were last summer’s war, I wouldn’t expect much danger. Raids don’t get far without help. But this isn’t last summer’s war. The border will vanish. King Maggur wants to keep the ground he takes. There is no safe zone within a hundred miles of the border. You’ll see combat. I guarantee that.’
Kel met Wyldon’s eyes with hers. ‘Sir, you’ll have forts and patrols close to the Vassa – between me and the enemy. I still feel like you’re trying to keep me safe. That’s not why I became a knight.’
Wyldon sighed, levered himself out of his chair, and went to the door. ‘Come with me.’
Outside, Wyldon led the way to a large building near the rear wall. Its windows, covered with hides to keep out the weather, leaked bits of light. Wyldon found the door and entered, Kel on his heels.
The large building was filled with sound: conversation, babies’ and children’s crying, the clatter of wood. Rows of three-tiered bunk beds lined the walls. There were lofts overhead on either side, with railings to keep anyone from falling to the ground floor. Rope strung across the open space between them held drying laundry. Bags of winter fruits, garlic, bundles of dried herbs, and vegetables also hung from the rails. The air was filled with the scent of rarely washed human, burned food, cooking fat, and animal urine. Cats and dogs hid in the shadows, lay on the beds, or played with anyone who would bother. At the far end of the barracks a giant hearth provided warmth and cooking fire.
Silence fell as the door closed behind Kel and Wyldon. Those people closest to them went quiet, staring at the district commander and his tall companion. Face after face turned, half hidden by shadow, fitfully lit by lamps or hearth fire. Children and adults appeared between gaps in the loft railings to see why the room below had gone still.
‘If you’ve come to share supper, my lord, we’ve none to spare,’ announced a woman by the fire. ‘We ate it all and could have eaten more.’
She walked forward. There had been more of her once, from the way her stained red wool dress hung on her stocky body. Her eyes were brown and heavy-lidded, the eyes of someone who had seen hard times. Age had scored deep lines around her nose and mouth. Her nose was broad and fleshy at the tip, her lower lip fuller than the upper, giving her a look of dissatisfaction. A kerchief of black wool kept reddish brown hair from her face; a black wool shawl hung from her elbows.
She stopped before Wyldon and Kel. ‘Giving this pup a look at the unfortunate?’ she asked, her husky voice scornful. ‘Something for the lad to write home about?’
It seemed the woman thought she was a boy. Kel looked down at her bosom. She wore a quilted tunic, which hid her small breasts, and it had been so long since a knight had worn the double ring on her badge that most wouldn’t know it signified a lady knight.
‘Good evening, Mistress Fanche,’ Wyldon said courteously. ‘This is one of the knights who has come to defend the border, Lady Knight Keladry of Mindelan. Lady Keladry, Fanche Weir.’
His voice was loud enough that everyone nearby heard. For a moment there was no sound. Then a whispered rattle of talk broke out, spreading to fill the room. Kel heard ‘lady knight’ repeated over and over.
Kel bowed to Fanche, glancing at the woman’s left ring finger. Fanche wore a ring of black braid: she was a widow.
‘Fanche’s husband Gothar was the Goatstrack miller,’ Wyldon explained.
‘“Was” bakes no bread,’ Fanche said. ‘I’m single enough now, and I’ve work to do.’ She returned to the hearth to stir whatever simmered in the biggest pot.
‘The Scanrans hit Goatstrack last October – burned the mill, killed the miller and their daughters,’ explained Wyldon softly. ‘Thirty-seven dead in the entire village. Fanche mustered those who remained and got them here, fighting Scanrans the whole distance. She saved fifty-eight lives.’
‘She’s a handful, that one,’ commented the man who now stood by Wyldon’s elbow. He was shorter than Kel, unshaven, with ears that stuck out and an impish glint in his blue eyes. He was going bald in an unfortunate way, losing strands of brown hair in clumps, giving his crown the look of a field gone to weeds. He was weathered, the sun having put deep crow’s-feet by his eyes and two long creases down either cheek. Like Fanche – like all the refugees – he wore clothes that would have fit someone with more meat on his bones. He stood casually, hands dug into his pockets. ‘Gods, I love a tough woman,’ he admitted.
‘You have your work cut out with her,’ Wyldon said with a chuckle.
‘Oh, well, I like work,’ the man replied.
Kel, startled, looked from him to Wyldon. Her training master always stood on dignity; Neal’s epithet, the Stump, was justified. Never had she heard Wyldon laugh or joke. Never had she seen him smile for amusement’s sake, as he did now.
He’s happy, she realized, stunned. Training us – that was his duty. But he didn’t like it. He’s comfortable here, in the dirt and the cold, with people to defend.
‘Keladry of Mindelan, Saefas Ploughman,’ Wyldon said. ‘He’s a trapper.’
The man bowed. ‘Not from Goatstrack, so I’ve had little time to wear her down,’ he said with a grin. ‘The way Squire Owen tells it, milady, you’re ten feet tall and eat ogres.’
Kel smiled. She could see that Owen would like this man. ‘I shrank in my last hot bath,’ she replied. ‘I’m very disheartened by it.’
People came over to be introduced. So did others as word spread that the realm’s second female knight was present. They spoke to Wyldon, asking for news as they eyed Kel. All bore the signs of hard times: clothes that were too loose, ragged, and stained; skin that had once covered more flesh. Their eyes were haunted by family and friends who were dead, crippled, enslaved, or missing.
At last Wyldon bade the refugees