Django Wexler - The Thousand Names

That was the point, really. Wizards and demons were something that happened to someone else, in some faraway country, or else deep in the past where they belonged, with the saints and knights in shining armor.

On the other hand, I suppose that for most people Khandar is a faraway country. Most Vordanai would not be at all surprised to hear about magic in such a distant land, so why should she, having gone there, be surprised to find it?

Another thought occurred to her-as far as the Church was concerned, what had happened in the tent was nothing less than the work of a demon, the unholy spawn of the vilest pits of hell. Feor herself had said it was heresy, although presumably judged by different lights. Winter had never been a particularly religious person, but she’d absorbed enough in her years at Mrs. Wilmore’s that the idea made her uncomfortable. She quashed that feeling irritably.

If it works. . She almost didn’t dare think about that. If it works, I don’t care if Feor is some fiend from the black pits. If I can talk to Bobby. . The need hung in her chest like a painful lump. Something had changed, she realized. Before the revelation of the corporal’s gender, he’d been a friend and comrade-in-arms. Now she was something else-a co-conspirator, possibly-and the possibility had knocked a scab off a part of Winter’s heart that she’d long ago closed off. The thought that there might be someone who shared her secret was exhilarating and terrifying, both at once.

“They’re leaving the wagons.”

Winter almost fell off the box. She’d been so wrapped up in her own thoughts she hadn’t noticed that anyone else was nearby. Looking up, she found herself sharing her impromptu bench with a young Vordanai woman in trousers and a loose wool blouse. Her hair was pulled up tight, which gave her a severe air, but she smiled at Winter’s obvious discomfiture.

“I’m sorry. I startled you.”

“I was just. .” Winter shook her head, not quite trusting her voice.

“It’s understandable,” the woman said, and for one mad moment Winter thought she knew everything-her secret, the magic, everything. Then she went on. “The battle seems to take everyone in different ways afterward. Some men want to dance and sing, or go whoring and drinking, whereas some just want to . . sit.” She gave a little sigh. “It was terrifying enough at the bottom of the hill. I can only imagine what it must have been like to actually go up it.”

Winter nodded, feeling a bit at sea. She sought for something concrete to focus on. “What did you mean about the wagons?”

“They’re leaving them behind. Look.”

The woman pointed. The First’s tents were near the edge of the camp, and Winter had a view of what had been the regimental drill field the previous day. Men were forming up there now, carrying heavy packs as if for a long march, but the horse lines beyond remained undisturbed and the wagons were still unhitched.

She blinked. “What’s going on? Are we marching?”

“The Second and Fourth battalions are. They had the easiest time of it in the battle, the colonel said, so they get to go fight in the next one.”

“The next battle?”

“The colonel is all in a lather to go assist Captain d’Ivoire. We’re behind schedule, apparently.”

Winter could well believe that, given the delays they’d suffered on their approach. “What about us?”

“First Battalion?” the woman said, and when Winter nodded she continued. “Taking a well-earned rest, I should think. First and Third are staying behind with the trains and the wounded.” She looked down at herself and smiled ruefully. “And other impedimenta.”

Winter put on a vague smile of her own, at a loss how to proceed. The woman regarded her thoughtfully.

“What’s your name, Sergeant?” she said after a moment.

“Winter, ma’am,” Winter said, feeling suddenly formal. “Winter Ihernglass. And it’s lieutenant, actually.” She hadn’t yet bothered to track down a lieutenant’s stripe to replace the pips on her shoulders.

“Lieutenant,” the woman said. “Excuse me.” She extended her hand, and Winter took it and shook cautiously. “I’m Jennifer Alhundt.”

The handshake lasted perhaps an instant longer than it should have. In that instant, Winter got the queerest feeling that there was some thing emerging from this woman’s skin, some invisible fluid or gas that raced up Winter’s arm and wrapped itself around her, sinking by degrees through her uniform and then through her skin to embed itself in her flesh. Goose bumps rose along her arms, and she let go a bit too hastily.

“Is this you?” Jen said, jerking her head.

Winter, suppressing a shiver, forced herself to focus. “What?”

“Your tent,” Jen said patiently. “Behind us.”

“Oh. Yes. Why?”

Jen shrugged. “Just curious. I’m always amazed at the conditions in which you soldiers manage to survive. Four men to a little tent, for years at a time. I’ve got one to myself and I’m still not going to regret leaving it behind when this is over, I don’t mind telling you.”

“It was better when we were in camp by the city,” Winter said. “We had time to-spread out a little.”

“You’re Old Colonials, then?” Jen said.

Winter nodded. “They brought some of us in to teach the recruits a few things.”

“Interesting. Is it working?”

Winter thought of the folded paper Folsom had brought her. “No,” she said. “Not really.”

For some reason that made Jen smile. She stood up, brushing off the seat of her trousers.

“Well, Sergeant Ihernglass-sorry, Lieutenant Ihernglass-I’m sorry to have imposed on your time. I’m sure you have better things to do.”

“Not really, ma’am. Except maybe sleep.”

“That’s awfully important,” Jen said. “I’ll leave you to it. Thank you for the bit of company.”

Winter nodded, and Jen strode off.

I wonder who she is? There had been no Vordanai women among the Old Colonials, so she had to have come over with the colonel. Some civilian functionary? A mistress?

Winter shrugged and turned back to her tent. There were more important things to worry about.

• • •

Drying blood had stuck the bandages solidly to Bobby’s skin, even once Winter had untied the knots.

She really ought to have called Graff back, but he was probably asleep somewhere. And Winter wasn’t sure what she’d find, but the fewer people who knew about Feor’s-about Feor, the better. She glanced over her shoulder to confirm that the Khandarai girl was still sleeping.

Bobby was sleeping, too, and looking considerably less drawn than she had when Winter had left her. Whatever Feor had done was having some positive effect. Winter brought one of the kettles and a supply of fresh bandages to the side of the sickbed and poured a trickle of lukewarm water across the stiff, scarlet-soaked cloth. Once it had loosened a bit, she peeled the ruined linen away, leaving behind a mess of caked-on gore. She soaked a fresh cloth and went to work cleaning the blood away, trying not to touch the wound itself.

Only-something was wrong. With some perplexity, and then increasing excitement, Winter worked the cloth across the spot where the gory hole had been and found nothing but smooth skin under her fingers. She poured another stream from the kettle and wiped it away, then sat staring.

The injury was gone, but not without a trace. An irregular patch of skin, vaguely star-shaped, was changed . It was white-not the pale, ugly color of a scar or the sickly white of a fish’s belly, but the pure, brilliant white of marble. Winter imagined it even had a bit of sparkle to it, the way some marble did, as if someone had replaced that patch of Bobby’s skin with a perfect replica grafted from a statue. Winter touched it, carefully, half expecting to feel the cool hardness of stone, but it gave under her finger just like ordinary skin.