Killian walked over to Miro’s desk and glanced down at the papers. “Let me assume something—and no insult intended: you’re swamped with detail.”
“How do you manage?” Miro asked. He felt the loss of Beorn with a fierce hollow sensation in his chest. “I don’t know where to begin.”
“Your problem is that you need to learn to delegate,” Killian said. “Once again”—he grinned—“no insult intended.”
Killian came around to scan the contents of Miro’s desk. “I can see reports mixed up with logistics. Provisions mixed up with arms. Take the load off, Miro. You need assistance.”
Miro waved a fly from his face. “But who? Beorn used to take care of all these things.”
Killian took the sheaf of reports from the scouts. “Have you named a new lord marshal?”
“No . . . not yet.”
“Then do it. Which of your commanders spent a lot of time with Beorn?”
“Marshal Scola, Marshal Corlin . . .”
Even saying the names made Miro feel better.
“Who should be lord marshal?”
“Marshal Scola,” Miro said without hesitation.
“Good. Give him the military briefs. Have him bring the important items to you. Now, who among your commanders is good with logistics?”
“That’s where I struggle,” Miro said. Then an idea came to him. “Amelia was excellent at provisioning Sarostar during the city’s defense. Would that . . .?”
Killian smiled. “Good choice. Have duplicates of the scouting reports sent to Amelia. She can also concern herself with foraging and the like. Who can help you with lore?”
“Amber,” Miro said.
“See?” Killian grinned. “Sometimes the people you need to help you are closer than you think. Have your new lord marshal delegate the rest of the responsibilities.”
“Poor Beorn,” Miro said, running his eyes over the reports. “He carried so much of the weight, and I never even thanked him for it.”
“He knows,” Killian said. He patted Miro’s shoulder. “Wherever he is. But Beorn delegated, just like you’re doing now.”
Killian turned back to the tent’s opening and poked his head out of the entrance. He spoke to someone outside. “Please fetch Marshal Scola, Marshal Corlin, Lady Amelia, and Lady Amber to the high lord’s tent.”
“How did you become such an expert?” Miro said when Killian returned.
“I had help,” Killian said. “Rogan Jarvish. A big bureaucracy in Seranthia. Perhaps my mother, most of all.”
“Killian?”
“Yes?”
“Thanks.”
“None of us are perfect, Miro. It pays to remember that.”
An hour later Miro left his tent, feeling something close to peace for the first time since Beorn’s death. He wondered if holding onto the workload was his way of memorializing his former commander and friend. Even so, it felt good to let go.
The blue haze on the endless horizon made the plains appear to go on forever. There was perhaps an hour left of daylight, and Miro intended to return a favor with one in kind.
It couldn’t hurt to have some fun along the way.
He weaved through the tents, and his men nodded to him as he greeted them by name. Leaving behind the green uniforms of the Alturans and the brown tabards of the Halrana, he finally found the significantly larger encampment of the Tingarans.
Compared to Miro’s men, the legionnaires sparkled as fresh as warriors could be. They glanced up at Miro but took no special note of his appearance; he’d changed to simple clothing. Most of them hadn’t yet fought, and though they were as tired as the rest, these men looked ready to do battle at a moment’s notice. To a man they would be anxious to return to Tingara and defend their homeland against the horde. Miro empathized with them, and he would do his part. The Legion had come to support Altura, and Miro always repaid his debts.
As he approached the Imperial compound, guards stepped forward, but Miro held his ground, meeting their eyes until they finally realized who he was and drew back. He spotted a grander tent than the rest and found Killian sitting on a log with a nearly empty plate on his lap.
“Eating alone?” Miro said.
Killian chuckled as he looked up. “It’s a nice change from the Imperial Palace.”
“Finish up,” said Miro. “Come with me.”
Killian raised an eyebrow, but he set the plate down and followed Miro out of the camp. It took a long time before they exited the perimeter, curious glances following in their wake, but Miro didn’t stop until he’d found a wide clearing beside a stream, a reasonable distance from the encampment.
Miro then turned to Killian and showed the emperor what he held in his hands: two wooden practice swords.
“You have the strength and the agility,” Miro said. “You just need to know the movements.”
“Sword practice?” Killian said. “I don’t need . . .”
“Every man should know how to use a sword,” Miro said. “You never know when lore will desert you. Trust me, I was in the lands across the sea with no zenblade or armorsilk, and without my training I would have died.”
“Why so far from the men?”