“What about King Bottero?” No, the night of the summer solstice wouldn’t go away. And the autumn equinox was coming. Would Bottero and Velona – and the goddess – celebrate it in front of the army? If they did, Hasso expected another drunken night and another painful morning.

In the dim lamplight, Velona’s eyes went even wider and bigger than they were already. “By the goddess, no!” she exclaimed. “He enjoys me. I know that. But love me? He’s not so foolish – he knows better.”

“But I don’t? Is that what you mean?” Hasso didn’t try to hide his bitterness.

“Some of what I mean.” Velona was nothing if not blunt. Maybe some of that had to do with the indwelling divinity she carried. More, though, Hasso judged, came from her own nature. She went on, “The other difference is, I like Bottero, but I really care for you. I don’t want anything bad to happen to you because of me, but it may.”

“If you care for someone” – he stayed away from the explosive word love – “you worry about things like that. I thank you.” He gave her a gesture that was half a nod, half a salute.

She sighed. “You don’t know what you’re talking about. You’re thinking of a broken heart. You can get a broken heart if you fall in love with a milkmaid. Even a Grenye in love with another ugly little Grenye can get a broken heart. But if the goddess ever has reason to be angry at you…” She left it there.

Hasso started to ask her what might happen. Maybe she’d already answered him, though. Like a moth that loves a torch. In his world, it would have been one more figure of speech. Here? He wasn’t so sure he wanted to find out.

“Have to keep the goddess happy with me, then,” he said, and reached for Velona. “Even if she does smell like a horse.”

Laughing, Velona kissed him. But then she said, “Oh, no – that’s just me.” He thought about teasing her some more. It didn’t seem like a good idea. Making love, on the other hand … never seemed like a bad idea. He blew out the lamp.

Castle Pedio, hard by the border between Bottero’s kingdom and Bucovin, was less a fortress than an observation post. It had the tallest towers Hasso had seen since coming to this new world. The reason was simple: those towers let the Lenelli see as far into Bucovin as they could.

Half a kilometer east of Castle Pedio rose another structure, one that looked a lot like it. Castle Galats, that one was called. The Grenye had built it. It was clumsier, heavier – the Grenye didn’t have the tools or the skills the Lenelli did. But Castle Galats served its purpose: a signal fire at the top warned Bucovin that King Bottero was on his way by this route.

Hasso swore when he saw the fire. “Should take that castle by surprise when you decide to go to war,” he told Bottero. “Then signal doesn’t go out.”

The king frowned. “You tell me that now. I see it makes sense, but why didn’t you suggest it before?”

“I don’t know this castle is here then,” Hasso answered with a shrug. “Why don’t you tell me about it?”

“Everyone must have thought you did know,” Bottero said. “Anybody who knows anything about the border would.” He stopped and sighed. “But you don’t know anything much about the border, do you?”

“Only what I hear,” Hasso said. “I don’t hear about watchtowers – I’m sorry. But this is the first time I am here, your Majesty. I am stranger here. This place can still surprise me. It still does surprise me every day.”

“Well, you surprise us, too – mostly in good ways,” King Bottero said. “Except when you show you don’t belong here, we think you do.”

“Thank you,” Hasso said, even if the king meant, You don’t seem too barbarous most of the time. He pointed toward Castle Galats. “Do we take that place, or do we just mask it?”

“Mask it,” Bottero said at once. “The men from Castle Pedio can do that. Neither place has a big garrison.”

“However you like,” Hasso said. “I just don’t want any nasty surprises when we go by. I don’t like getting nasty surprises. Giving is better.” He pointed toward the beacon fire in the Grenye tower. “We don’t give any for a while now.”

“Sooner or later, we will.” As usual, the king sounded confident. “When the Grenye try to face us, we’ll make them pay. Your striking column will help, by the goddess.”

“I hope so.” Hasso had all kinds of reasons for saying that. He wanted to make Marshal Lugo look like the stick-in-the-mud, the French general in Lenello’s clothing, that he was. He wanted to make his own stock rise. And he wanted to beat Bucovin, which would help him reach both those other goals.

The Grenye in Castle Galats jeered at the Lenelli as the invaders went by. Bottero’s men stayed out of arrow range of the watchtower, so Hasso couldn’t get a close look at the barbarians’ equipment. Some of the Grenye seemed to be wearing iron, while others made do with bronze.

“They know iron when Lenelli come here?” Hasso asked Aderno.

“Yes, but they were just learning to use it.” The wizard looked as if he’d just bitten down on a particularly sour pickle. “They’ve learned a lot more since – from us. They buy as much as they make themselves – from us.”

“Why sell to them?”

“Some people care more about money than anything else, and don’t care how they get it,” Aderno replied. “Is it not the same in your world?”

Since it was, Hasso nodded and let it go. He looked around. “So we are inside Bucovin now?”

“Oh, yes.” Aderno nodded, too. “Can’t you see how shabby everything looks?”

To Hasso’s eyes, the land on this side of the border seemed no different from the land on the other side. The peasants in Bottero’s kingdom were also Grenye. The thatch-roofed cottages here looked the same as the ones farther east – to the Wehrmacht officer, anyway. “How do you mean?” he asked.

Aderno made an exasperated noise. “Anyone with eyes to see would know… Well, maybe you don’t have eyes to see. All right, then.” He started ticking points off on his fingers. “A lot of their crops here are native weeds. They don’t grow the fine vegetables and good grains we brought with us from across the sea. You can live on millet and sorghum and squashes, but why would you want to?” He made a face.

Were the Grenye slobs, or was Aderno a snob? Some of both, probably, Hasso judged. He and his buddies had sneered at the Ivans for eating kasha and sunflower seeds … till they gradually realized that sneering at the Ivans wasn’t such a good idea any which way. “I see,” he said slowly.

“Do you? I hope so,” Aderno said. “I was just getting started, though. Their livestock is inferior, too. They had no chickens before we came, only ducks – miserable things, too – and half-tame quail and partridges. Their pigs are only a short step up from wild boars. The sheep and cattle they breed, they stole from us. Their native horses are barely even ponies. And they have no unicorns at all. They can’t ride them, and unicorns also come from across the sea.” He laid a hand on the side of his mount’s white neck.

Europeans would have said the same kinds of things about Red Indians. But how much of what the Grenye had was really that much worse than its Lenello equivalents, and how much just seemed unfamiliar to Aderno and his folk? Hasso didn’t know the answer. He did know Aderno didn’t even see the question.

“Are you sure the Grenye can’t ride unicorns?” he asked. An edge came into his voice as he added, “Remember, not long ago you say that about me.”

This time, Aderno might have been sucking on the mother of all lemons. “I was wrong about you, and it cost me. I am not wrong about the Grenye, by the goddess.” He paused thoughtfully. “Maybe I was wrong when I said they had no unicorns. They’ve stolen a few from us, the way they steal big horses to improve their herds, and it’s possible that they’ve bred the unicorns, too. But no one has ever seen a Grenye on unicornback, not in all the years since Lenelli crossed the sea.”