He walked up to her and handed her a small statuette of a woman holding a baby in her arms. It was made of some green stone that was wholly unfamiliar to her. What is it, she asked. Jade, he replied, with the beloved smile that he only gave to her. Jade, she mused. If it were a name, she said softly as she cradled the statue, it would be Jadris. Or Idris, in the Old Tongue. They didn't have a 'j', she said unnecessarily. He smiled. Look at it, he said. She looked down, to discover that the original green of the stone had warmed to a richer heartfelt green. Oh!   It is a statue of the Goddess of Luck, and her child, Victory. Hold it, and think of me on the field of battle tomorrow... I will. She smiled at him until he left, then she clutched the statue to her bosom and wept uncontrollably until her maid came for her. "My lady, what is it? You mustn't weep so! You shall make yourself ill!" I am already ill! she screamed, and then let herself be taken away and put to bed. "But what shall he be told when he returns?" He shall be told nothing. she said bitterly. He shan't care. And neither shall I... But her tears told a different story. Her servants and her father never told, and were sure that he never knew, just as she was sure that he knew without being told, and that he knew why.