Page 38 of Gryphon in Light

“It isn’t supposed to be a wonder-tale,” Firesong pointed out. “But I do agree; both trondi’irn Jeika and Alach Abarenty, her gryphon charge, were rather . . . pedantic. That book is one of the few things Treyvan and Hydona brought with them from Silver Gryphon when they made their trek into the east. It is quite an artifact.”

“Because if either of them had been sick or hurt, there were no trondi’irn where they were going, and the best they could hope for if they couldn’t help themselves was to find a Healer or Adept who would try with the help of the book,” Kel guessed out loud. He knew very little about gryphon Alach, and nothing at all about the gryphon’s trondi’irn; they were very much before his time at White Gryphon.

Firesong’s voice sounded pleased when he replied. “This is the kind of planning we are going to have to do, Kel. We need to think about these things before we head out into the unknown. So that copy of the book I left with you will be going with us, and for exactly the same reason.”

“And all the folderol and baggage you plan to take is doubtlessly going for the same reason,” Kel grumped.

Firesong laughed, but with a touch of embarrassment. “Not . . . exactly. Silverfox already cut most of my planned amenities out. I suppose Ayshen put him up to it.”

“Oh, your beloved is not going to put you through any hardship if he can help it,” Kel shot back. “If you are looking for sympathy because you are not traveling like a king, do not look for it from me. I can—”

“No, you can’t,” Firesong cut him off. “Firstly, admit it, you are as fond of your creature comforts as I—”

“And I learned that I can be satisfied with a great deal less of those than I thought,” Kel retorted, cutting him off in turn. “Try lying in the mud, in the rain, in a tent that won’t stay up, and eating literal offal some time! Not drained, stripped, or cleaned, either!” Kelvren narrowed his eyes. “No. Condiments. Firesong.”

Firesong threw up his hands. “You win! I surrender!”

Kel huffed, then subsided. “Well, what is my lesson this time?”

Firesong gestured to the book, still lying on its cushion. “Lessons for both of us. I confess I only glanced briefly through it when I was given my copy. I’ll join you, and we shall valiantly suffer the dryness together.”

“With many snacks,” Kelvren finished. “We needn’t do without just yet.”

Genni arrived in the Valdemaran camp with the next wagon train of supplies, and, typically, did not go hunting for Hallock, but fended for herself—introduced herself to the right authorities, fed herself, found out where his tent was for herself, moved her baggage herself, and was waiting for him when he returned to the tent.

And if Hallock had not been warned by several people that “there’s a wooman what says she’s yer wife in yer tent, First,” her arrival would have come as a bit of a shock. A pleasant shock, but a shock nevertheless.

There was an uncertain interval in which there was a lot of hugging, a lot of kissing, and a lot of murmurs about how much they had missed each other before they settled down and sat on the cot to talk. In low voices. Tents have notoriously thin walls, and he was not minded to share his conversation with his wife with anyone but his wife. In fact, he was more than a bit euphoric, and it took pure force of will not to just sit there gawping at her like a lovestruck ninny and actually speak real words formed into understandable sentences.

And even more strength of will to not suggest that they go stroll away from camp and enjoy the cool spring day, a day in which it was not raining, and most of the mud had dried up. A perfect day in Valdemar with Genni, either way, he thought. But—tomorrow, maybe. He was the First on duty, after all, and he could not go wandering off on a whim. In fact, I may skip my usual rounds. They can send someone if they need me.

As might have been expected, Hallock tried to gloss over how close he had come to death, and she was having none of it and insisted he show her his scars. There was quite a bit of explaining and some damp eyes (on his part) and crying (on hers). It was several candlemarks before they sorted themselves out, and the less said about that, the better.

Not a single moment of priority duty interrupted their reunion.

I think my unit’s covering for me. That thought made him laugh out loud, and Genni joined in, and moments later they both escalated their affections, emboldened by the unexpectedly cozy feeling it gave them—to think others might be giving them their privacy.

Guard-change sounded from unexpectedly nearby trumpets, and in the First’s tent, the pair took it as their cue to dress respectably and make their way together to the business of being here. It was their turn to “crank the handle”—that is, to go through the rings and ladders of registration, disposition, allowances, and more through Community Services. It split off from Guard clerks into a civilian business under hire of the Crown. “Being processed” was a derisive term for it, as in, “processed into sausage,” but fortunately the camp was not at a high state of alert, so the task would be easier. When alerts were lower, everyone relaxed, and on occasion, some were surprised to find that they really liked their work. This was when the distinctive touches of a posting would form. What do the people here think about, when not on active alert? Sports, contests, championships? Arts, performances, and training? The Community Services had only been constituted twenty-two years ago, and their main mission, in short, was to manage negativity. Part of that included streamlining bureaucracy, which came along with a cadre of trained runners. Unsurprisingly, footraces were a mainstay of their sports programs, and locals were allowed to be part of several for talent-spotting. Those runners made for fast bureaucracy in collating the stamps and papers, leaving the petitioners free to get to their meetings.

The captain signed off to get Genni officially on the rolls—and by then it was suppertime—so off to the mess tent. Hallock knew that the “wooman in the First’s tent” story was going to make the rounds, and it was best to cut off speculation before it had a chance to bloom. The captain kindly assigned her to the “gimp tent” for now. That would take some of the pressure off the Healers; a Hand could do just about anything a Healer could that didn’t involve actual Healing. They could even dispense herbal medicines with the authorization of the Healer in charge.

As luck would have it, most of his people were in the mess tent, and those that weren’t would soon get the proper story from the rest. He headed for the centermost of the tables, and at the sight of a strange female with him, the entire tent went silent.

“This is my wife, Genni,” he said abruptly into the silence. “She’s signed on as a Healer’s Hand. Some of you might remember her from our posting back at the Palace.”

Nods from those remaining of his people who had also been posted there. The rest, who had joined as replacements for the wounded and dead, took their cues from the old hands.

“With captain’s permission, she’ll be quartered with me.” No talking about the expedition, not until the two of us have a chance to discuss it. “Otherwise, she’ll be tending to the recovery tent.”

More nods. And no smart comments about “officer’s privilege.” Well, he thought that he had instilled the proper mixture of respect and confidence in them, but it was heartening to see that he had been correct.

Of course, there was going to be a lot of jibber-jabber about it once he and Genni were out of sight. That was only to be expected. But it didn’t look like any of them were going to make any kind of an issue about him having his wife here. He wasn’t the only one in this camp to have a mate along, but none were there as prizes—all of them were working, some as laundresses, some as cooks, and there was at least one case of a married pair in the ranks, though that was . . . not encouraged.

Having established that this was nothing worth gossiping about, he and Genni got their stew—the cooks, of course, had heard all of this and took his word for it that the captain had put her on the rolls. “I’m sorry about the stew, ma’am,” the head cook said while serving Genni. “Today is a Stew Day. It’s just bad luck. Good food, but bad luck—I try. I truly do. It feels like the only thing you ever find at any camp or tavern is ‘stew,’ just stew, the same lumpy brown stew every time. And here, when you show up? New place, and sure enough—stew. But tomorrow? Tomorrow is fish fry, fried onions, soft-boiled taters, an’ brown rolls. With salted butter. Then meat-on-a-stick with mixed veg an’ peppers the day after, an’ no stew again for another three days. Fruit when we’ve got it! But today . . .” The cook sighed, as a last drop fell from his ladle. “Today is just . . . stew.”

The cook’s assistant tugged the ladle from the man’s grasp and took up the slack for others waiting. Someone dug out a discarded (clean) half-a-mess-kit from the racks and served them both. They exchanged a look once they got their food.

“‘Today is a Stew Day.’ That’s going to haunt me,” Hallock admitted. Genni maintained a frozen expression of happy neutrality as they threaded through the throng.