They stopped at midday beside a stream where the road dipped into a small valley. Cassius gave the order without ceremony and the column halted with the ease of people who knew the routine. Horses were watered. Food was distributed — bread, dried meat, hard cheese, an apple each. Seralyn dismounted, which required rather more concentration than mounting had, and stood beside Arvel and ate her bread and looked at the stream and kept her face entirely neutral.

The stream was narrow and fast-moving, cutting through the valley floor between banks of dark earth and exposed root. The valley itself was shallow, the hills on either side low enough that the sky remained wide. It was pleasant country. She noted this in the detached way she had been noting things all morning — storing observations against some future use, keeping her attention occupied.

Around her the column had relaxed into the stop with the ease of long practice. Men sat on the verge or crouched by the stream. Horses drank in a line upstream, held loosely by the grooms. Thessaly had found a flat stone near the bank and was eating with the composed self-sufficiency she brought to most situations. She caught Seralyn's eye once and held it for a moment and then looked back at the stream, which was its own form of communication.

"How are you finding her?" Cassius said. He had appeared at her left. He was also eating.

"She is a good horse," Seralyn said. "Very steady."

"She is." He looked at Arvel. "She will not fight you on the upland roads. Some horses dislike the softer ground. She is indifferent to it."

"That is reassuring."

He bit into his apple and looked at the stream. "The valley opens out past the next rise. The road flattens for an hour or so before it starts to climb again."

"How much climbing?"

"Gradual. Nothing the horses will find difficult." He paused. "Nothing you will find difficult either."

She looked at him. He was not looking at her — he was watching two of his men water their horses upstream, his expression neutral. She could not tell if the last remark had been deliberate or incidental. She decided to treat it as incidental.

"How many times have you made this crossing?" she said.

"Four. Three times with my father when I was younger, once alone two years ago." He finished the apple and set the core down on the bank. "The third crossing was in winter. I do not recommend it."

"I had not planned to make it in winter."

"Good." A pause. "The upland country is passable in most seasons but winter closes some of the higher tracks entirely. You would need to go around, which adds four days."

"I will keep that in mind for future reference," she said.

He looked at her then, briefly. "You are already thinking about the return journey."

"I am thinking about the geography," she said. "They are not the same thing."

He said nothing to this, but the corner of his mouth moved in the way she had catalogued. She looked back at the stream.

He looked at her briefly. She kept her eyes on the stream.

"We will stop for the night two hours before dark," he said. "There is a way-station the party has used before. It is basic but dry."

"That will suit well enough."

"There will be a private room. It is small but it is separate from the main hall." He said it without particular emphasis, as a logistical fact. "Thessaly will be able to stay with you if you prefer."

"That is not necessary," she said. "We are married. It would be irregular for us to sleep separately at a waystation."

He looked at her. "I did not want to impose on your privacy."

"You are not imposing," she said. "We will share the room. It is the expected arrangement and we will have to grow accustomed to it in any case." She paused. "I had expected it."

He held her gaze for a moment. "Very well," he said. "As you prefer."

"It is not a preference," she said. "It is simply the practical arrangement."

He nodded once and moved back toward the front of the column.

She stood where she was for another moment. She finished her own bread and started on the cheese and looked at the water moving over the stones at the stream's edge. Her back had eased slightly with the dismount — standing was considerably preferable to sitting in the saddle, a fact she was storing carefully for the afternoon. Her thighs had not eased. They had simply gone from active complaint to a dull, settled persistence that she suspected would make itself known again the moment she remounted.

Thessaly appeared at her shoulder.

"Your maid," one of Cassius's men had called her this morning, not unkindly. Thessaly had not reacted to this. She was carrying two cups of water drawn from the stream, and she handed one to Seralyn without comment.

Seralyn drank it.

"The afternoon," Thessaly said.

"I am aware of the afternoon."

"You are holding your weight on the right."

Seralyn corrected her stance. "I am not."

"You were," Thessaly said. She said nothing further on the subject. She drank her own water and looked at the stream.

When she was confident no one was looking in her direction, she shifted her weight very carefully off her left hip, which had developed an opinion about the morning's work that she found unreasonable and would not be entertaining.