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across the rest. River galleys, long and lean and deadly, patrolled upstream and down- at each crossing. With their oars moving in smooth unison, they reminded Grus of so many centipedes striding across the water. They also made him long for the days when captaining one of them was as far as his ambitions ran.
    When he said as much to Hirundo, his general laughed at him. “You’re only saying that because you’ve got a sore backside.”
    â€œI don’t have a sore backside,” Grus answered. “I’ve done enough riding by now that I’m hardened to it. But those were simpler days. I didn’t have so many things to worry about. I was down on the Stura most of the time, but I hardly ever thought about the Banished One. The Menteshe? Yes—of course. Their lord? No.”
    â€œHe didn’t think about you in those days, either. If you find yourself in the Banished One’s thoughts, you’ve come up in the world,” Hirundo said.
    Grus laughed. He supposed it was funny if you looked at it the right way. Still … “I could do without the honor, thanks.”
    â€œCould you?” Hirundo was usually the one quick to laugh. As he and the king sat their horses just beyond the riverbank watching the army come off the barges, the general seemed altogether serious. “If the Banished One didn’t have you in his mind, would he worry about anyone in Avornis?”
    Lanius, Grus thought. And Pterocles. Like him, they’d received dreams in which the Banished One appeared and spoke. Grus could have done without that honor, too. Never in battle had he known the fear that curdled his innards when he came face-to-face with the Banished One’s calm, cold, inhuman beauty, even in a dream. He knew too well he was opposing someone—something—ever so much stronger than he was.
    He didn’t think Hirundo had ever had one of those horrifying dreams. For whatever reason, the Banished One didn’t reckon Hirundo dangerous enough to confront that way. The officer wouldn’t have spoken so lightly of the foe if he’d met him like that. No one who’d directly faced the Banished One’s power spoke lightly of him.
    Swearing sergeants shepherded soldiers back into their places. The army started south again. Peasants working in the fields took one look at the long column coming down the road and fled. Grus had seen that many times before. It always saddened him. The farmers and herdsmen didn’t think the Avornan soldiers were invaders. They were afraid of being robbed and plundered just the same.
    Here, though, the soldiers didn’t have to forage off the countryside to keep themselves fed. At Grus’ order, supply dumps awaited the army all the way down to the valley of the Stura. Wheat and barley would give them bread; cattle and sheep, meat; and there was ale and wine to drink. The soldiers had plenty. But the peasants didn’t know that, and weren’t inclined to take chances.
    Low ranges of hills running roughly east and west separated the valleys of the Nine Rivers from one another. The roads that ran straight across the valleys wound and twisted as they went through the hills. They followed the passes that had been there since the gods made the world. Grus’ mouth twisted when that thought crossed his mind. The god said to have made the world was Milvago, whose children had cast him out of the heavens and who was now the Banished One.
    Had he turned to evil before Olor and Quelea and the rest expelled him? Or had being ousted and sent down to this lesser sphere infuriated and corrupted him, so that he became evil only after coming to earth? Grus had no idea. Only the Banished One and the gods in the heavens knew, and Grus would have bet they told different stories. In the end, how much difference did it make? The Banished One dwelt on earth now and was evil now, and that was all a mere mortal needed to know.
    Riding at the head