"Onward," Cullen agrees, and nudges his horse into movement.

He's quiet; it's perhaps to be expected. At least the weather's nice, he thinks: air crisp, sky blue and cloudless. If Cullen's calculations are right, they ought to know by noon whether this was a very bad idea, and it'll give them time to catch up to the rest.

You planned it as best you can, he tells himself. And if it goes wrong, you'll be too busy trying to catch up to talk about it.