Lara stopped and squeezed his shoulder before moving past him and dropping into the cushioned chair opposite. "I’m sorry to keep you so late.”“Osten, when he decides to talk, will rumble for days.”“I had more to say than he did. Our archers are trained for the field, not for sniping from trees and rivers. They did poorly.”“Our general is minded in that way.”“He is. You’re not, nor is Bistel.”The corner of Jeredon’s shadowed face pulled. “Bistel declined to head your troops.”“I know.” Lara looked into the banked fire which barely held enough heat to chase the cold from her rooms. “We have his backing, and yet we don’t. The talking, for now, is done. We’ve training to finish. But that’s not why I asked you to wait up for me.”“It isn’t?”“No.” Lara wearily tugged off the black sash of mourning from her upper arm and let it drift to the floor. “I know you’ll be handling the replacements capably. What we need to talk about is Nutmeg.”He dropped his gaze a moment before meeting hers steadily, as if gathering himself.She added quietly, “I hear you’ve refused yet another request from the Stronghold of the ild Fallyn to send healers.”“I may not be the man our grandfather wanted me to be, but I have some grasp of the situation.
