“Is my sense of judgment in doubt?” Meoraq asked, blackly amused. “Is that what you’re telling me? Is that what you’re saying to the Sword and the Striding Foot of God?”

“I’m saying when I’m tired, I’m not always as objective as I could be.”

“Spoken like a priest. It’s easy to tell who had the keeping of you.” And that really was spiteful. Meoraq made himself stop talking, even if he couldn’t quite make himself apologize. A Sheulek was not required to be civil so long as he was honest.

Eric made no reply, but his eyes in the firelight burned.

“At first light,” Meoraq said again and was answered with a silent salute. He went into his tent where the scent of human blood was strong and lay down as far from his wife as he could. Her breaths in the dark were loud and not even; her face, if he could see it, would be strained. He listened, thinking he should pray for her once more so that those were the last words Sheul heard from his heart tonight and not the ones he’d given Eric, and so thinking, he closed his eyes and was deeply asleep at once.

* * *

His dreams were tangled things, impossible to put in meaningful order. It seemed to him it began in Tothax, because his cousin Nkosa was there and the two of them spent some measureless time together on the rooftop before the edges blurred away and he was walking with Amber across the plains of Yroq. She was limping, falling behind, and when he finally turned around in a senseless kind of dreaming rage to yell at her, it was not Amber any longer but Nicci instead. Her shoulder was bleeding, fresh blood in the shape of toothmarks, and he knew with all the certainty of dreams that her father had bitten her, to force Meoraq to take her in. She held out her arms to him, her face cold, mewling at him after the manner of a dumaqi woman and hating him with her eyes. Then he was somewhere deep in ruins, slaughtering raiders as they came for him, slaughtering their slave-women as they cowered and ran, slaughtering their screaming children. He thought he must be looking for Amber, to save her, but when she came out of the darkness, his sword went before him and the roar that tore from him as she fell was not grief, but rage. He turned around, surrounded on every side by blood and death, and found himself trapped behind a wall of glass and there were Ancients on the other side, standing over their unknowable machines, watching him. One of them came down from the dais and reached out to him, reached right through the glass that Meoraq beat his fists raw against, and put his hand on Meoraq’s shoulder.

Meoraq awoke with a violent start, seeing first the figure from his dream looming over him and then Scott and finally, truthfully, Eric.

“You said dawn,” the human reminded him, withdrawing. “I made some tea.”

“Stay out of my tea box,” Meoraq muttered uncharitably and rolled over to have a look at Amber’s wound in the dim morning light.

She came awake with a high cry as he lifted her blanket, then slumped back and stared at him blearily from deep in her sunken sockets. “What is it about the second day that makes everything hurt worse?”

“Swelling,” he replied, peeling away her poultice. The flesh beneath was deep red and swollen, but not so badly as he feared. Blood stained her bandages, but not pus. Not yet. He grunted, then carefully pressed it down again. “How do you feel?”

“Like I have a fever.”

He moved closer and lay his chin briefly over her brow. “You don’t,” he said, relieved. “But you have lost a great deal of blood. It must be—”

Her arms slipped around his neck and weakly held him. He shut his eyes, feeling only her trembling embrace, and wished with all his bitter heart that they had never come to Gedai.

“I want you to drink a little tea,” he murmured at last, gently pulling away. “And then we have to go.”

“Oh, Meoraq, I don’t think I can.”

“I’ve made a sled to carry you.”

Her face twisted, dismayed, even as she tried to laugh. “It’s one slice of shit-cake after another with me, isn’t it? Why did you marry me?”

“God gave you to me.”

“Did you keep the receipt?”

He didn’t know what that meant, although he knew it wasn’t worth a response. He lifted her, ignoring her sounds of pain and the obvious strain of not giving them full voice. Shouldering his way out of the tent, he found Nicci and the other humans by the fire, warming up cold meat for the morning meal. “Leave that,” he ordered. “You can eat as we walk. N’ki, fill the flask and pack the food. The rest of you, take down the tents and the walls.”

“Please,” called Amber, white-faced with pain.

“You don’t say please to servants,” he said crossly, setting her on the sled.

“Yeah, I know what you people do with servants. Leave them alone.” Her brows furrowed in an expression something like embarrassment. “Feels like I’m bleeding again.”

He checked. She was. He didn’t have much healershand left—it was surprising enough that the provisioner in Chalh had thought to give him any—but he chewed half of what he had and painted it onto her wound, careful not to crush the beetle heads.

“You want to hear something funny?” Amber asked in a muffled voice. She’d shut her eyes as soon as he’d lifted her bandages and now had her hands firmly pressed over her face, as if to stop herself peeking.

“Not really, but go on.”

“This would be no big deal where I’m from. I could just go to the clinic on the corner and get patched up. They’d give me back all the blood I lost, slap on some syntheskin and send me home with some pain pills and if it had happened on a Friday, I’d be back to work on Monday. Do you believe that?”

He grunted, re-affixing her compress. “I believe you are not lying. I have no idea what you’re saying. You can look now.”

She lowered her hands—they trembled—and opened her eyes—they were glassy. “When are you going to tell me that this is what I deserve for doing such a stupid thing in the first place?”

“I’m not,” he said, bringing out the first of the binding straps and passing it beneath her legs. “I know you acted only to save the lives of your…” He paused to let a few unspoken adjectives blow away in the wind, then finished, “people.”

“Yeah, but not getting yelled at is making me think I’m a whole lot more hurt than I thought I was. Level with me, lizardman.” She grabbed at his arm, missed, and finally caught him. “How bad is this?”

“Lesser wounds have killed,” he said. “Greater wounds have healed.”

He could tell that wasn’t much comfort to her. Truth, it wasn’t much comfort to him either.

He fetched what tea was left in his stewing pouch after the humans had been at it and poured it into his new metal flask, then brought it back for her to drink. She managed only a few sips, grimacing at the taste, which was a perfectly good winterleaf blend. “For now, know that you are in His sight.”

“Like I was when He let me get on the ship?”

“The ship that brought you to me, yes.” He grazed the backs of his knuckles gently across her brow. “He set you on this path, Soft-Skin. Have faith that He will see you reach this journey’s end.”

She looked up at him with her weary, pain-dull eyes and said, matter-of-factly, “He doesn’t love me like He loves you, Meoraq.”

It hurt his heart.

“Even if that were true, and I say it is not…” He knelt down beside the sled and lay his hand over hers. The only warmth in it came from the flask she held. “If He loves me, He will never let you die.”

“And nobody believed me when I said they were doing it,” Crandall remarked, helping Dag roll up one of the walls. “That shit’s just embarrassing.”

Meoraq grunted, still looking only at Amber, who offered him a crooked sort of smile. “You’re not going to let me hit him, are you?”

“You really shouldn’t.”