The Weaver looked out upon an expanse of small, white tents that covered a field of green grass. They were set up in neat, little rows so that people could easily move through the “streets” between them. Almost every man she saw wore the uniform of an Eradian soldier. Blue pants and a black coat with gold buttons. There were women present as well, tending cook fires, doing laundry. Every camp needed followers.
Her eyes fell upon a barrel-chested man who led his horse by the bridle through a lane between two rows of tents. Captain McCallum was an older fellow with curly, gray hair, a thick beard and eyes that seemed to call you a liar every time he looked at you.
And he was coming her way.
The Weaver had abandoned her filmy gown in exchange for a modest, red dress with a high collar that
