Afternoon light filtered through the canvas at a shallow angle, catching dust still hanging above the furs from when the tent had been raised. A low brazier burned near the center, giving more light than heat in the mild season. Each draft stirred the flame and sent shadows drifting across the floor.
Beyond the canvas, Batu could still hear both camps at work. Saddle leather creaked. Men talked in low voices while they waited. Whatever happened inside this tent would decide whether those armies marched together before the season ended.
She stopped beside Mindaugas without hesitation. No one had to tell her where she belonged.
He remained seated.
"My daughter," he said. "Aušra."
He inclined his head toward her with the same plain manner he'd carried through the meeting.
"She keeps better count of my chiefs than I ever have."
