26th of Arestre, Continued

Legends and songs always make victory sound like the end. Someone wins, someone loses, it's over. In some ways, that's how it feels — at least at first. There is an unspeakable, incredible relief that the bombs aren't falling any more, elation that you survived... But it turns out the end of a war hangs around long after it has worn out its welcome, stinking up the place like a mean drunk, one minute passed out and motionless in the corner, the next hitting and smashing and bringing nothing but pain, confusion, and heartache for no reason. The bombs might stop falling, but the repercussions don't.

~~~

A breeze whispered over my skin, sifting through my hair, tugging at the cotton pants and short jacket I had been given. Afternoon sunlight warmed my face, and I let my head loll against the cushioned top of the seat behind me.

We were on our way down into the valley, and I was with Arramy. Just the two of us, with no signs of battle in sight, only the green of pine and the grey of limestone unrolling along beside us, and a vault of perfect blue sky overhead. If I pretended the pock-pock-pock echoing in the distance wasn't gunfire, we could have been any two people, going anywhere.

The two-man began rounding a long, gradual bend in the road, and I eased an eye open, getting a lazy glimpse of Arramy's hands as he worked the steering controls. A ghost of a smile tugged at my dry, crackly lips. He had taken off his hunting jacket and rolled his sleeves up above his elbows. I let my gaze wander upward, taking my time.

My smile faded as my little daydream bubble met reality. Arramy's clothing was dusty with dried mud, soot, and who knew what else, and he smelled like a war zone; sweat, dirt, hot metal, ashes, oil and explosive powder. Bits of inky blue-black grease paint still smeared his face and streaked his hair. Judging from the lines of exhaustion bracketing his mouth and the weary slump to his shoulders, he hadn't been able to sleep much since putting me on that medical transport.

My throat tightened, my eyes prickling and hot.

Then we finished rounding the bend, the trees thinned, the valley opened up below us, and I lost my breath, my good hand moving to grip the edge of my seat.

Because we really weren't out driving on a lazy afternoon. We were racing down the mountain road in a Coventry two-man engine, and from our vantage point, we could see the entire valley floor. It looked like a giant had taken a hoe and dragged a long trench through the earth between the Headquarters building and the Manufacturing Sector fence. The lines were almost neat, the ground on either side practically untouched, the grass still green and incongruously dotted with field flowers. But between those lines, there was nothing but five miles of pitted, pockmarked mud.

And there, roughly halfway down the trench, the tail fin of a Coventry flyer jutted at an angle from a crater. My lips parted on a stuttering breath as I realized just how far we must have run through enemy fire: all of a mile, at least. So many ways we could have died...

Pock-pock-pock... pock-pock...

The rattle of gunfire was getting clearer now, as we got closer, loud enough to be heard over the growl of the military gopher engine. It sank into my chest, lodging there like a freezing ball of lead.

Pock-pock... pock... pock-pock-pock...

I swallowed hard and fought to keep my breath moving in and out, in and out, but a wave of dizziness rushed at me anyway, my vision flickering along the edges.

Pock-pock-pock...

... burning debris everywhere, and I was falling, falling, falling — I dug my fingernails into my palms, using the pain as an anchor. I took a deep breath, then another, dragging myself back into the present, forcing the terror into its little box... as much as I could, anyway. My hands were still sweating, my heartbeat racing, but I had pulled back from the brink. Arramy needed my help. I had to get myself under control.

It didn't get any easier.

Ten minutes later, the road leveled out as we reached the bottom of the mountain, and another few minutes later we pulled into the Illyrian military post, with its collection of open-sided tents, vehicles, and soldiers moving about on patrol. Between the camp and the edge of the no-man's land stood a ten-foot-high breastwork of rubble reinforced with sandbags, offering some protection from the Coventry rounds that were zipping overhead.

Arramy didn't have to stop at the checkpoint when we reached the camp. The guard waved him on through, and we rumbled along a wheel-rutted, muddy track that wound between the tents, then went rattling across an empty stretch of ground between the tents and the stockade.

Straight for what looked like some sort of bunker made of dirt, with a broad, dark opening in the front framed in with heavy timbers and sandbags.

The front opening sloped steeply downward, diving into the earth.

"We got one of the mining engines working a few days ago," Arramy said loudly, leaning close. "We broke through the Coventry lines yesterday and took half the Manufacturing compound."

"Oh" was all I could manage, my stomach giving a nasty lurch. There wasn't any time to react or prepare. All I could do was grab at the edge of the seat again as Arramy drove straight into that opening, slapping out a quick blast of the gopher's klaxon as we entered the tunnel. The next instant we were underground, heavy support beams and patches of dim lamp illumination flashing by as we raced toward a pinprick of daylight at the far end.

The thick, musty scent of damp sand and wet wood poured over me, cold and clammy, and just like that I was fighting a wave of terror. It was ridiculous, really. I knew very well I wasn't in the Medical Sector, but I couldn't stop the fear that crawled up my spine, making my muscles go rigid. I could have sworn I could smell the antiseptic from the High Minister's surgical room. My stomach knotted up —

A large, warm hand settled on my left knee, strong fingers squeezing gently. "Almost there."

I pulled in a gulp of air, somehow finding it easier to breathe. And then we shot out of the tunnel and into another Illyrian encampment, this time inside the Manufacturing Sector fence.

We had crossed underneath the no-man's land.

One of the huge machine hangars loomed a few dozen meters in front of us, and Arramy pulled the two-man up in front of it, applied the brake, and flipped the pin back into the flywheel. For a moment, he simply looked at me, there in the sudden stillness. Studying me. Patient. Steady. Calm.

That was all I needed. I took another deep breath and let it out. Then I squared my shoulders and opened the door on my side of the compartment, stepping down onto the concrete of the parking yard.

A small group of people was waiting for us outside the huge, open hangar door, among them a familiar man who was obviously not Illyrian, with his short auburn hair and stocky build. He stood with his arms crossed over his chest, watching us as we got out of the two-man and came toward him.

Beside him, a tall Illyrian woman was looking from Arramy to me and back, an appraising gleam in her bright azure-green eyes. She wore the long dark-blue cross-front coat of an Illyrian officer, her black hair a mass of tiny braids strung through with beads and shells. Her face was badly scarred, her brown skin mottled and puckered along the side of her jaw and up across her temple, but other than skewing her smile, it only added to the impression of a fierce battle-tested survivor.

Arramy didn't stop at all, walking swiftly past the knot of people and on into the hangar, saying over his shoulder, "Brenorra, you remember Commander Kyrro, and this is Admiral Indirri of the Illyrian Navy. Indirri, this is Brenorra Warring. Is Cressaidhe back yet?"

"Yes, and she's all set up and ready for you, sir," Kyrro said gruffly as he and Indirri fell into step beside me.

Arramy acknowledged that with a grunt and kept going.

Behind us, the rest of the group came along, and I caught a rustle of whispers, but I was too busy hurrying to keep up with Arramy's long stride, trailing behind him across the empty hangar floor then out the far doorway, around a corner, and down a walkway, heading for a barricade of scrap metal and machine parts.

A spate of tracer fire came zinging overhead from the other side of that barricade, the shots loud and clear, echoing from the walls of the hangars around us: Pock-pock-pock... pock-pock-pock...

I tried to focus only on tracking Arramy's feet, a frantic string of thoughts spooling through my head. The Coventry were just trying to keep us pinned down. Their incendiaries weren't reaching us there behind the barricade. Just look, Arramy was walking fully upright without being shot through the head.

Pock-pock-pock...

You'll be fine... it's fine... you'll be fine...

Arramy's feet came to a stop.

I looked up to find him standing in front of the hulking shell of a gutted mining engine gear case.

A young blonde woman in grease-stained coveralls was sitting cross-legged on the flat top of the gear case. She didn't seem not notice when we came down the walkway, her equally grease-stained hand pressing an earpiece to her head, her dirt-streaked face a study of concentration as she turned the dials on what looked very much like a Coventry listening device that wasn't visibly connected to any source of power.

Arramy watched her for a moment, then thumped a hand on the side of the engine carcass. "Cress!" He tapped a finger on his own ear when she glanced around.

"Ah. You're here. Excellent." She removed the earpiece, then scooted forward and slid off the engine housing, landing on the ground with a clatter from the array of tools tucked into her coveralls. "I've got everything about figured," she said, addressing Arramy while her gaze flicked over to me. "This the interpreter, then?"

Arramy glanced down at me. "Bren, this is Cressaidhe Starling, our best mechanic. Cress, this is Brenorra Warring."

I managed a tight smile.

Beneath the dirt on her face, her eyes were ringed with exhaustion, but she gave me a tired grin in greeting. "Good to finally meet you." Then she turned back to Arramy and held up the device's handset. "All you have to do is press the switch there and speak into this thing," she said. "I rewrote the spool so it should tether automatically with any communications boxes in a one-mile radius, but it makes plenty of noise all on its own. They should be able to hear you just fine."

Arramy took the handset, unhooked the length of corded cable that connected it to the device, and stepped around the gear box to stand at the base of the barricade, beckoning me over next to him.

I bit my lower lip. You'll be fine, it's fine... Stomach roiling, I moved to stand next to him. This was what he had asked me to do. I just had to do it, and then I could get away from the angry zip of bullets hitting the sandbags stacked along the top of the barricade.

Arramy leaned a shoulder on a strip of corrugated metal and angled his head to peer through a narrow loophole in the rubble. "They're penned in, just a handful of them left, but from what I can tell, they're mostly Paradazhborn kids," he said quietly, making room for me to get a look through the hole too.

Swallowing hard, I edged up beside him, gingerly trying to keep from jostling my left arm or strain my left side as I climbed up on a chunk of concrete and craned to see through the hole.

There was about a hundred meters of parking yard on the other side of the barricade, hemmed in on both sides by the walls of two manufacturing warehouses. At the other end of the parking yard stood another machine hangar, and in front of the hangar doors ranged a half-circle barricade of stacked concrete blocks, with loopholes set into the top, neatly framed in with metal sheeting and topped with coils of razor wire.

Almost as soon as I got a look at the Coventry line, there was a series of bright muzzle flashes, and another pock-pock-pock of gunfire erupted from three different points on the wall. The nasty sound of rounds hitting sandbags and metal barely a meter from my face had me ducking and Arramy pulling back, but none of the bullets made it through the loophole.

Behind us, Kyrro spoke up, his tone curt, "I still think we should go in, sir. They've been using small carbine rounds for the last half hour. I count maybe half a dozen active sentries. If we go in now, we could easily overwhelm them. Send a clear message to the rest."

"You mean wipe them all out," Admiral Indirri retorted, her Altyran tinged with the short, choppy syllables of her native language. "Many of them are children or grandchildren of those that were taken from my country. I cannot go back to my people and say I did not do my best to save them."

"A carbine round can kill a soldier just as well as an incendiary," Arramy observed quietly. He glanced at me intently, as though trying to explain something. "We've already lost too many already. I'll not send anyone else in." After a moment, he shifted so he could hold the handset between us. "So we'll try talking first. Ready?"

I closed my eyes, mentally slipping into Paradazh. Then I nodded.

Arramy thumbed the toggle up on the handset and lifted it to his lips. His voice rose over-loud into the late afternoon air, amplified several times from multiple places: "This is General Arramy of the Illyrian Army."

I bent closer to the handset and spoke clearly, "Vei varrosenegharen Illyruinestadt Heirghestallen Arramy."

"To the Paradazhborn in the Manufacturing Sector." Arramy went on, pausing for me to repeat his words in Paradazh. "We have you surrounded... Outnumbered... We could kill you all and end this in bloodshed... But we are aware that you have wounded... You are running out of supplies... So we offer instead a ceasefire... Care for your wounded... Food and shelter... You will not be given this chance again... Do not waste it now."

For several seconds nothing but silence reigned in the parking yard.

I hazarded another glance through the gap in the rubble.

There were indeed a handful of Paradazhborn soldiers manning the Coventry wall, their guns poking through the loopholes. They didn't fire at all. Not even when a short, balding man in the grey uniform of a Coventry officer began shouting at them. I could see glimpses of his figure striding to and fro behind their lines, stalking along the barricade, flourishing a short whip.

"Avhardeghane ghendt!"

"He's telling them to remain at their posts," I whispered in Altyran.

"Avendredegh!"

"Don't weaken. Or maybe don't break..."

"Avenkareghe! Avelestoughendt! Nasvenilgahodt! Karreghesondt avghourezhen!"

"You will stay. You will fight... to the very last man... for the honor of your heritage..." I provided, my voice trailing off as movement on the Coventry wall distracted me.

One of the soldiers had lowered his rifle.

Abruptly, things began happening in quick succession, almost too fast to follow.

The soldier who had lowered his rifle began to climb the barricade, and the officer shouted at him, "Avgedht!" (Stop!) "Vannesteghan!"(I command it!) The soldier kept climbing, and the officer raised a pistol, aiming it at the young man's back, bellowing, "Huishen!" (Traitor!)

Arramy didn't need a translator to figure out what was happening, and shouted, "Parrona, take out the lieutenant!"

A split-second later, there was a harsh, furious scream from somewhere off to the right of the Coventry lieutenant, and a shot rang out.

The lieutenant's arms splayed wide and he staggered, then dropped out of sight.

Several of the Paradazhborn soldiers were leaving their posts, and there was a flurry of fighting, more shooting, then a cry of agony cut short by another succession of bullets.

Parrona, who was armed with a long-barreled sniping rifle, turned to look at Arramy, holding up her hands to show it hadn't been her doing. "They've done it themselves, sir. Him and the sergeant."

Meanwhile, the first soldier had completely scaled the barricade and descended into the parking yard, a lonely figure limping across an expanse of concrete, his patrol uniform tattered and filthy, his face bloodied.

The last time I had seen him, his uniform had been crisp and clean, his hat at a jaunty angle. I clapped a hand to my mouth. I knew that patrolman. Without a word, I began picking my way up and over the wall of sandbags in front of me, then down a pile of broken concrete pillars on the other side.

A muffled curse and a patter of gravel announced that Arramy was coming after me, but I had already reached the parking yard and started walking toward that Paradazhborn soldier.

"Ayago?" I called.

The patrolman kept coming, a wan smile crossing his lips. "Miss Anderfield. I thought it was you." We both came to a stop a few feet apart in the middle of the yard.

I couldn't help my answering grin. "I'm glad to see you." That wasn't a lie. I was glad this inquisitive young man, who had never quite fit into the Paradazh mold, had survived all the bloodshed and would live to walk away from this mess.

"I am glad to see you also," he said in his stilted Tradeslang. Then he dipped his head, regarding me with haunted, somber eyes. "Did he mean it? He will give care to our wounded?"

I glanced over my shoulder at Arramy. He was standing at the bottom of the barricade, eyeing Ayago warily, his pistol drawn but aimed at the ground, his other hand raised in a 'hold fire' sign to the Illyrian snipers scoping in on Ayago from the top of the wall. "The General is a fair man," I said quietly in Paradazh, turning back to Ayago. "He does not say things he doesn't mean."

Ayago's gaze darted to Arramy, his eyes widening as he realized who, exactly, he was looking at.

After a moment, Arramy holstered his pistol, a thoughtful look crossing his face. Then he started forward, closing the distance between us, coming to stand next to me.

Slowly, Ayago sank to his knees, his face gone pale under all the grime. He bent at the waist and remained that way, his forehead nearly touching the ground at Arramy's feet. "Mei da ghazhen doharreden. Thuiseghanden opheraveid." ("I have come to offer our surrender. We are at your mercy.")

Arramy waited for me to translate, then he reached down to take hold of Ayago's shoulder, urging him to stand up. "I am no High General," he said quietly, then he simply clasped the younger man's hand and looked him in the eye."I accept your surrender, but there is no need to bow to me."

Again, I translated, this time my scratchy voice straining around a lump in my throat.

Ayago jerked his head in a shaky nod and shook Arramy's hand.

In the distance, the rest of the Paradazhborn soldiers left their weapons and began coming up and over the Coventry wall, their hands raised, their movements clumsy with fatigue.

It was quiet, the end of the war. Just three people in the middle of an acre of sun-baked concrete, one handshake under a faultless summer sky, and the surrender of the last of the Paradazhborn after three decades of fighting and heartache and loss.

~~~

ARTICLE IN THE ARRITAGNE DAILY BULLET, 12th of Carros (3 months after the end of the Illyrian Conflict, included here for continuity.)

On the 26th of Arestre, four hundred fifty-two soldiers and staff members were taken into Illyrian custody at the Paradazh, the colonial stronghold of the Ascensionist movement. The surrender came following a battle that lasted only two weeks.

Upon investigation, it was discovered that three hundred ninety of the surrendering forces had been severely wounded in battle, with one hundred seventy-one casualties among them. Twenty-seven of those casualties were reportedly killed for insubordination by their own officers after the siege of their entrenched position began. There were no able-bodied medical personnel left to treat the wounded, no medical supplies, and their rations were nearly gone.

The fall of the Ascensionist movement marked the end of a trial the rest of the world ignored. Peace was hard won, and unknown. While most of the Continent was sleeping, there was a great celebration underway.

That article was followed by a series of sylverographs.

The largest was of a hangar full of row upon row of wounded Paradazh soldiers, a lucky few lying on cots, the rest lined out on the floor.

The next had been taken of Admiral Indirri orchestrating the burial of the bodies found stacked behind the hangar.

Another, smaller sylvo showed a hollow-eyed young woman wearing the grey blouse and skirt of the Paradazhborn office staff, sitting on a clean bedroll and eating hot soup from an Illyrian military ration tin.

The next collection of sylverographs were taken several hours after the surrender of the Paradazh.

In one, several people were standing arm in arm, hanging from each other, laughing and saluting the sylverotype operator with bottles of wine from the High Minister's personal cellar, the extravagant Triumvirate palace compound courtyard as a backdrop behind them.

Another was taken of the crowd gathered under the great portico entrance of the High General's palace, everyone holding plates piled high with the delicacies liberated from the High Councilor's kitchens.

There was one of a group of Illyrian soldiers smiling triumphantly as they cut down the Paradazh flags that decorated the balconies overlooking the courtyard.

Beneath that, a wide-frame of a group of former slaves and their long-lost Illyrian family members reuniting at the tables set up around the massive courtyard fountain.

Last, there was a shot of the musicians tuning their instruments by the fountain, every last one of them grinning ear to ear because they were now free to play the music of their homelands.

What those images didn't show was the deep lines of grief in Ayago's young face as he showed me where he had buried his brother. He hadn't had the energy to dig a deep enough hole, so he had stacked bricks over him. He had watched his friends die of their wounds, one after another, their bodies left to rot when the Coventry lieutenant ordered anyone who could still hold a gun to defend the barricade. By the day of surrender, there were only a handful of soldiers left, and no one to bury the dead or help the dying.

~~~

Six Hours After Surrender

I surveyed the massive amount of food I had been given by one of the girls at the food table. There was far too much for me to realistically eat. Besides, it was creating mixed feelings, eating a dead tyrant's food. On the one hand, it was food. If we didn't eat it, it would just go to waste. On the other hand, many of the things on my plate had belonged to the High Counselor. He had had ridiculously expensive tastes. The thought of him digging into a bowl of jellied Panopal blue octopus eggs, smacking his lips and licking pre-born octopus off his fingers while enumerating his latest political ideas, was enough to kill my surprisingly fickle appetite.

The rest was made up of the basic staples usually given to the slaves, creating a strange amalgam of things. Plain boiled porridge and firefruit brought across the ocean from the Ronyran mountains; last year's dried apples and Moarian cave honey; roasted tik-tik from the Agricultural Sector and imported ambergreen-fed Tetton boar.

Idly, I pushed the point of my knife into a slice of Tetton pork, using it to divide my serving of milky octopus eggs into two round, bulbous clumps.

Somewhere across the courtyard, a commotion broke out. Arramy had arrived. I caught a glimpse of him through the crowd that swarmed to greet him. He was surrounded by a host of important people, up to his nose in responsibilities, those strong shoulders carrying the weight of an army and the worries of a nation.

In many ways, he had become the legend the Paradazh had believed him to be.

Where did that leave me?

Every interaction we had, I wound up rattled and confused. One moment he was looking at me in a way that made my pulse take off like a mortar shell, the next he was all withdrawn and somber and whatever-that-other-thing-was that looked so much like guilt.

Why couldn't it be easy? Why couldn't I just open my mouth and tell him... I heaved a giant sigh, deflating. Tell him what? Tell him I was hopelessly in love with him and had been long before I wound up in that cargo bin? That now that I'd found him, even the thought of being apart from him was enough to make me break down in a sobbing heap? Like a hopeless idiot I had let myself imagine that scenario a hundred different ways while I was locked up beneath the mountain, but now that he was right in front of me, all the things I wanted to say were glued to my tongue by the fear of damaging what we had.

I wasn't even sure what this was, this 'what we had.'

He had only asked me to help him out of necessity. There was nothing romantic about anything that had happened today. As if there would be, we just survived a war. You also haven't seen each other for more than a year. Annoyed with myself and my rioting sea-saw of emotions, I went went back to redistributing the food on my plate.

I was sitting at the special 'head' table all by myself, eating alone. Everyone I knew was running around, doing big important things, making big important decisions, and everyone else seemed to be in awe of me for some reason. They watched me, talked about me, even waved at me in passing, but didn't approach because of my great, illustrious spy fame. Or whatever. Do I stink? Maybe I stink... I paused in drawing lines in my spicy smoked beans and took a tentative sniff at my borrowed blouse. Nothing horrid, just the clean scent of Arramy's soap. I pulled a mug face and rounded up another spicy bean. Stink or no stink, my table was empty. And, to be honest, I was just... tired. My left arm ached. My head hurt. I should have stayed in my tent — strike that, Arramy's tent — and gone to bed. I had probably already well-exceeded the limit of what Doc meant by 'taking it easy.'

The shuffle and creak of someone taking the seat across from mine broke through my glum reverie. I glanced up, lost my breath, and then sat there like a lump, watching as Arramy proceeded to place a mug of Illyrian beer and a well-loaded plate in front of him.

I couldn't stop staring. He had washed the grease paint out of his hair. It had grown quite a lot since those days in Pordazh Vennos. He had the top half pulled back in a sort of no-nonsense nod to an Illyrian style, but the rest fell in thick platinum waves nearly to his shoulders, the silver-blond stark against the deep bronze of his skin. Just one more difference.

He didn't say anything, settling in to eat, focused on putting away an entire tiktik steak and a whole pile of roasted root vegetables before he finally slowed down and sat back. "Ohhhh, aye, that was needed," he grunted. "Don't think I've eaten anything since yesterday morning."

I bit my lower lip and pushed my plate toward him. "Want mine?"

He raised an eyebrow at it. "Is that the High Minister?"

"Oh good," I grinned. "You can tell."

Arramy's lips twitched.

"So," I said, steeling my resolve. "What are you going to do? I mean, you know... after everything is over and you've restored all the order and rebuilt all the things."

Arramy's gaze rose to meet mine. He had lifted his mug of beer, but hesitated, considering my question. "I haven't had a chance to think that far." He frowned slightly. "How about you?"

Whatever you're doing would be fine with me... I leaned forward intently. "What would you do if you could do whatever you wanted?"

He stared at me a moment too long, his eyes darkening to pewter. Then he took a long swig of beer, swiping a thumb over his mouth before answering. "I'd find a place as far from this mess as I can get. Start a smithy with Kenoa, maybe."

A smile tugged at my lips. Get a dog... grow canon balls in the garden... "You won't stay in the army?"

He shook his head. "Nai. Once things are settled here, I'm done."

"That's good," I started to say, relieved, but my words were cut off by the loud blast of a trumpet from the center of the courtyard, where the engineers had built a stage by the fountain.

To my surprise, Marrin was there on the stage, her teeth flashing in a saucy, knowing grin, her voice loud enough to carry over the merriment of the crowd as she spoke into a sonulator handset. "Good evening, everyone!"

There was a roar of greeting in response, and she waited till things quieted a bit before lifting the handset to her lips again. "This is a beautiful night, isn't it? A night to celebrate!" She had to wait for another round of applause to abate, then kept going. "And you know what I think? I think... There is someone here we all know and love, someone who has earned a place of honor among us with his tireless determination and unflagging courage... someone who has gone to a lot of trouble, and I mean a lot of trouble, to find one little woman..." she paused at a spate of hoots and laughter, then waved it away, continuing with, "I can honestly say we would not be standing here today without this someone... So what say you? Should we let our General start the festivities?"

Arramy glanced at her, his mouth pressing into a hard line, and I could have sworn he was blushing beneath his tan.

"Come on!" she called, turning to our table. "Get out here, General!" Then, when he didn't move, she lifted a hand to the crowd. "We all know what you went through to get a dance with Miss Warring! Don't leave us baited now."

A short, silent battle of wills occurred between them. Then, abruptly, Arramy rolled his eyes and got to his feet. "Meddlesome woman," he muttered.

My heart set off at a gallop as he came around to my side of the table, looming over me. Then he held out his hand, palm up.

Dance. He wanted to dance.

Swallowing hard, I placed my good hand in his, then let him draw me from my seat. This had to be a dream, I told myself as I followed him down the steps of the dais and into the stretch of open area by the fountain. I could barely tell where my feet were. It felt like I was floating.

To my surprise, I recognized one of the musicians as the tall, rangy Northlander doctor who had sorted me into the Agricultural Sector, saving my life. He brought a rather well-worn fiddle up to his chin and drew a fraying bow across the strings in a long, raspy double note. Then he flashed a quick smile at me and started up a simple Altyran folk tune called 'Rowan and Yew.'

I turned to face Arramy, my pulse leaping to my throat.

Say something! But alas, there were no words in my brain.

Arramy tilted his head, a somber expression on his face that sent a flurry of butterflies through my stomach as he raised my right hand in his left, tucked his other hand behind his back in a courtly pose, and stepped forward, closing the distance between us.

As if by magic, my feet did what they were supposed to do, automatically following the opening figure from another lifetime: I shifted to my left so we were almost side by side, our hands shoulder-high between us. And then right there in front of a few thousand grieving, war-torn and battle-scarred people, we started dancing.

For all of a half-second, I was painfully aware of my own clumsiness and the sea of eyes watching us, the cheering and the shouts of encouragement... but then it faded into the background. I was dancing with Arramy, and even after all this time, it still felt so right.

The song was at least three centuries old, handed down through generations, performed around village bonfires and harvest days and weddings. There, in that courtyard, it became more than that, a poetic reminder that there had been a life before the Coventry, a time of peace before the war. As Arramy and I moved through the traditional, graceful figures, it was as if we were taking back that life, reclaiming that freedom. The Coventry had not beaten us into submission. They would not be marching across the continent, enforcing their rigid New Way, erasing ancient dances like this one in their quest to create their idea of a perfectly enlightened world.

No one else joined in. The whole first verse of the song, it was just the two of us and the fiddler, and the sweet, quaint strains of 'Rowan and Yew'. Then the piper lifted her flute to her lips and suddenly there was harmony. The drummers and the bass skreil player came in a few beats later, and to my amazement someone in the crowd began singing the words. Then another person, and another, until the entire courtyard rang with it,

Break all the windows and unhinge the doors,

pry up the lintels and pull up the floors,

Though naught be remained but the wind on the moors,

My heart has a home with the one I adore.

She's waiting, I know it, my heart knows it too,

in our green and gold valley, 'neath rowan and yew.

North to the willow, and South to the sea.

East to the oak wood, and West to the key.

I do not know when his bright eyes I'll see

But I'll not be removed from the man who loves me.

I'm waiting and longing for my love's return

to our green and gold valley, 'neath ivy and fern.

Gone to the war-ground to save me and mine,

Blood in the water, and ash in the sky,

Death gone before me, betrayal behind.

With the wrongs that I've seen, love, what peace can I find?

She's waiting, I know it, but how can I go

to our green and gold valley, 'neath jasmine and rose?

Though sea and tall mountain may stand in my way,

I'll find my true love, by quog or by cray,

I'll search the earth o'er, by dark and by day,

till my lover I cradle, e'er come what may.

Someday when the heather gleams gold in the dew,

We'll return to our valley, 'neath rowan and yew.

I glanced around as Arramy spun me into a turn.

Kyrro had gotten to his feet and was standing with his fist to his heart, and the Illyrian soldiers who had fought beside Arramy all followed suit, honoring their commander. At the nearest table, a woman from the Agricultural Sector was smiling at us through streams of tears, her hand at her lips. Across from her, a freed mining slave was singing the words with the music and thumping his knee. Everywhere, there were people humming or singing or clapping, but no one stepped out into the empty space around the fountain, letting their General have this moment. This first Freedom dance.

With me.

Throat tight, I came back around to take Arramy's hand again as the last verse ended and the dance came to a close, resolving into a lovely, drawn-out chord.

For all of two seconds, we stared at each other.

"Brenorra," he whispered, his voice husky. "Brenorra, I was wondering —"

I didn't get to find out what Arramy was going to say. The musicians struck up another song, this one more lively, and suddenly there were throngs of people coming to join in the dancing. In the middle of that, Kyrro appeared at Arramy's side, speaking in hushed tones.

Arramy listened, then shot a look at me, his eyes full of apology. "Something's come up," he said. "I have to go. Will you be alright?"

Taking a breath, I managed to duck my head in a nod of understanding even while fierce disappointment dug through me as he followed Kyrro through the crowd. I tried to keep my eyes on Arramy, but whatever Kyrro needed, it took them both away from the party.

A moment later, NaVarre was at my elbow, pulling me away, off the dance floor.

The last glimpse I got of Arramy, he was standing beneath the arched entrance to the courtyard, talking to Kyrro and Admiral Indirri. The Admiral moved past him, walking swiftly toward the parking yard behind the High Minister's palace, and for an instant he turned to look back at the courtyard, his gaze finding me even across that distance. He went still. Then he looked quickly away and strode after Admiral Indirri.

"... but I see you only have eyes for my great, shining replacement."

I looked around, frowning, finally realizing NaVarre had asked me a question. "What?"

"Nothing," NaVarre said dryly. "I've just been talking to a wall for the last few minutes. I was asking if you have everything you need for the trip."

"Trip," I managed.

"Yes. The trip. To Arritagne. With me," he said, heaving a disgruntled sigh.

I blinked. "Oh. Yes... Well. I'm not sure I want to go," I said, suddenly coming to a decision. I wasn't going to Arritagne unless Arramy was going too. A tiny flicker of something very much like hope had sprung to life during the events of that day. Hope that maybe, just maybe, I would get to live after all, and Arramy would live too, and wherever we were, we could be together. Somehow. I wasn't going to leave him behind, though. That I knew without a drop of doubt.

"You don't want to go," NaVarre said slowly, doubtingly, his brows lowering.

I shook my head. "I would, however, like to go back to my tent," I grated out, reaching out a hand to steady myself against the top of a nearby table. The day was catching up with me.

With another sigh, NaVarre nodded. "Fine. I'll take you over to camp. But we must talk more about this tomorrow."

The best I could do was a nod.

NaVarre drove me back to the Illyrian base camp and delivered me to Arramy's tent, and Farrana, the Illyrian nurse. Then he left, crutching away into the night, heading to his own tent a few doors down.

~~~

For the next several days I didn't get to see much of Arramy.

In fact, it almost seemed like he was avoiding me. He never came back to the tent and seemed to have found sleeping arrangements elsewhere. He was never in the mess tent, either. When I did see him, he was always on his way somewhere else, and barely stopped long enough to say more than a quick 'hello.'

The arrangements were made to begin moving things out of the Paradazh valley. The Illyrian army began leaving, returning home. The freed non-Illyrian slaves were sent to Nimkoruguithu, where they could head for the continent or search for their families.

For lack of anything else to do, I started helping Doc Starling as he treated the Paradazh wounded, translating for him. I had hoped, at first, that I would be able to run into Arramy more often that way, but the few times he came to check on Doc's progress, he barely spoke to me.

At first, I was anxious. Wracking my brain. Had I done something to upset him? Then I started to get worried. I had reached the point of being just about frantic enough to write a note to him pouring out my heart when the end of the war woke up as a nasty drunk and took a swing at me.

~~~