“She’s also a Fyrenn by blood, I understand,” Aefric said.

  “On her father’s side, yes,” Herewyn said, as though expecting this point to come up. “But she was not raised as one, nor does she think as one. Thus, while marriage to Byrhta would tie your grace’s blood to the Ol’Caran line, marriage to Sighild would tie his blood to the Ol’Masarkor, Ol’Norette, and Fyrenn lines. All three much older, and much more widely respected.”

  “Sighild stands to inherit her own barony,” Aefric said, taking Herewyn by the shoulders and rolling them so that he was on top of her. “That might be a distraction.”

  “A minor barony, as vassal to your grace’s own Countess of Fyretti,” Herewyn said, adjusting her legs and writhing just enough to make clear that she enjoyed her current position. “Sighild could hand it off to her younger brother, and devote herself to her duties as duchess.”

  “You raise interesting points,” Aefric said.

  “Not as interesting as this one,” Herewyn replied, smiling as she brought her hands together someplace low.

  And then they were busy again for quite some time before at last falling asleep together.

  3

  The next morning gave Aefric hope that the Feast of Dereth Sehk might become something like a vacation for him after all.

  He got to sleep in.

  Alone, as it turned out. He had vague memories of Herewyn rising sometime after dawn, kissing him and soothing him back to sleep, after whispering something about duties she needed to see to.

  Aefric, apparently, had no such duties awaiting him. For a change. He got to sleep until late in the morning, when at last the servants roused him, prepared his bath, and helped ready him to face the day.

  He was smiling, and dressed in a quilted silk tunic of navy blue over hose of Deepwater gray, with low, soft shoes of black leather that would be comfortable for walking, and matched the belt where his noble’s knife, his belt pouch, and the wand Garram hung.

  The bycocket hat with its tailfeather from a pyltenius bird went with the outfit, so he wore it as well. Even though Dajen might’ve frowned to see him wear any article of clothing two days in a row.

  No jewelry for him today. He seemed to remember Herewyn saying something the night before about not wearing jewelry during the first two days of the Feast.

  Brightstaff in hand, Aefric strode into his sitting room, where all the Knights of the Lake stood waiting, resplendent in their shining armor, and none more so than their captain, Beornric.

  The knights all bowed to their duke, which he acknowledged with the salute of a noble to a knight: he formed a fist with one hand and grabbed that wrist with the other.

  As he took the Brightstaff in hand again, Beornric raised one shaggy eyebrow and said, “I understand your grace had noble company last night. Shall I add Baroness Herewyn to his list of marriage candidates?”

  “No,” Aefric said, smiling. “She made clear that she is too happy as baroness here in Norra to seek the role of duchess.”

  “Nevertheless,” Beornric said, and Aefric frowned in the caution in his knight’s voice, “chasing the bliss moment with her was no reason to banish your guards from the sitting room.”

  “I banished them because I expected to take her lordship to task,” Aefric said, hushing his voice so that the servants in the next room would not hear him. “I spoke with Byrhta last night. She and Vercy aren’t here because Riverbreak never received an invitation.”

  “Your grace suspects her lordship?”

  “I did,” Aefric admitted, “but she persuaded me otherwise.”

  Ser Vria snorted a small laugh, that sent a rustle of amusement through the knights.

  “Not like that,” Aefric said. “She offered to wait here while I flew to Towerkeep in my magari and returned with the king’s justiciar.”

  “That is persuasive,” Beornric admitted.

  “She also told me of how courtship works in Norra.”

  “Ha!” Beornric said, slapping the plates of his cuisse. “Sighild wants to duel Byrhta?”

  “Wouldn’t necessarily be a duel, but yes, a challenge.”

  “She must be fuming that she didn’t get the chance.”

  “If so,” Aefric said, “she’s hidden it well.”

  “Well,” Beornric said, smiling, “then please consider my objections withdrawn. While I prefer to keep guards as close to your grace as possible, no noble should face such questioning in the presence of knights.”

  “Unless under guard, of course,” Arras said.

  “Of course,” Beornric said, frowning. “Which is my point. The presence of knights would have made her feel arrested.”

  “Are we finished, then?” Aefric asked. “I’d like to see about breakfast.”

  “No food is allowed until the Feast officially commences at midday,” Beornric said. “Which will be soon.”

  “And I assume I am wanted at some sort of commencement ceremony?” Aefric said.

  “Of course, your grace,” Beornric said with a bow. “And for your convenience, her lordship has provided two servants to fetch for your grace through the Feast, and two porters to carry for him.”

  “Good,” Aefric said. “I’ll want to have some gifts at hand, just to be safe.”

  He called in the porters and servants. All four wore the pale blue livery of Norra. The two porters were big, burly men, both about Aefric’s age, each of whom looked as though he could have carried a good sized tree, if asked to. The servants were small, and looked nimble. Younger, too. Somewhere close to the age of majority. One was a man and one a woman.

  “What are your names?” Aefric asked.

  “Alim,” the first porter said. He had a deep tan, and a jagged scar across one arm.

  “Parim,” said the other, who wore his brown hair and beard long and shaggy, giving him a wild look.

  “Kian,” the manservant said. His short red hair over his dark tan made him look almost like a burning log.

  “Bess,” the womanservant said. Her black hair was cut short as well, though her tan was not as deep.

  “Alim, Parim,” Aefric said. “One of you will carry a casket of gifts for me. As this is something of an honor, and as I understand that the first day of the Feast of Dereth Sehk is devoted to games, I will give you the option. I can choose one of you to carry the casket, or you can compete for it.”

  “Compete,” both said at the same time, which made them smile.

  “These two have been competing most of their lives, your grace,” Kian said. “They’d fight over a half-empty tankard of beer, to see who got to finish it.”

  Aefric chuckled. “Well, I can’t have you fighting here and now. Wouldn’t do to have you walking around bruised all day. Pick a competition that won’t damage you.”

  “Footing?” Alim asked Parim

  “Footing,” Parim agreed.

  Aefric frowned. He knew many tests of footing, but wasn’t sure which one this would be.

  Temat leaned a little closer, while Arim and Parim squared off. “The winner, your grace, will be the first to make the other fall or raise a foot from the floor.”

  The two porters flexed at each other, while moving their feet apart and bending their knees to lower their centers of gravity.

  Arim rolled his shoulders. “Ready.”

  Parim cracked his neck, loudly. “Ready.”

  “You start,” Arim said. “You need the edge.”

  “Ha!” Parim said, but he didn’t refuse.

  Instead he thrust both palms forward, striking Arim just below the ribs.

  Arim grunted, but didn’t budge.

  Arim dealt a resounding palm strike to the inside of Parim’s left thigh, but Parim didn’t do more than grunt.

  “Don’t take all day, you louts,” Bess said.

  Arim and Parim looked at each other. Nodded.

  Each grabbed the other by the shoulders. Started shoving first one way, then the other. Sometimes pushing. Sometimes pulling. But neither making headway.

  But then Parim changed the game. He shifted his grip to hold handfuls of Arim’s livery. Before Arim could adjust, Parim curled his arms inward, forcing Arim to lean forward.

  Arim struck the backs of both Parim’s thighs. Parim grunted in pain, but kept his footing.

  Parim roared and lifted Arim clear of the granite floor by more than a handspan, then dropped him.

  “I believe we have our winner,” Aefric said, and clapped Parim on the shoulder. With a gesture, he called the finely tooled greenwood casket through the air to Parim’s waiting hands.

  Aefric turned to Bess and Kian.

  “I’m afraid I can’t think of anything for the two of you to contest for at the moment. But if something comes up, I’ll be sure to give you the chance.”

  Both bowed their thanks.

  Aefric smiled and took in the company. “Shall we?”

  “If I might, your grace,” Bess said, hesitantly.

  “Yes?” he asked, trying to sound encouraging.

  “It is tradition for long hair to be bound for the Feast,” she said, and her compatriots all nodded. “It was the rule in Dereth Sehk’s army that no man nor woman fight with hair unbound.”

  “Very well,” Aefric said, and pulled a leather thong out of his belt pouch and offered it to her. “As you mentioned this, would you care to braid my hair?”

  “Yes, your grace!” she said, and did so with impressive dexterity.

  None of his knights needed change anything, of course. Only Ser Leppina kept her hair long, and hers was already braided.

  “Anything else I should be aware of?” Aefric asked.

  “Not that I know of, your grace,” Bess said, and Kian agreed with her.

  “Then let us be on our way,” Aefric said.

  Only three days of summer left, but Aefric would have been hard-pressed to guess that, looking up at the sky as he and his company emerged from Herewyn’s keep that late morning.

  The sun shone down, bright and encouraging. The sky, a richer blue today. Closer to what he’d expect from midsummer, rather than summer’s end. As though the gods wanted just the right sky for the first day of the Feast.

  The air was warm, but felt even warmer because it was still. Hardly a breeze in the courtyard.

  The surprisingly empty courtyard, all things considered. Plenty of armed soldiers on duty — especially up on the walls — but the courtyard gates were closed.

  Odd. Aefric had expected that the Feast of Dereth Sehk’s commencement would begin here in the baroness’ own courtyard. Was this a last-minute change because of Kefthal’s unexpected appearance? Or was this just the way things were always done?

  Either way, Aefric spotted Herewyn up on the walls, along with Sighild, Ferrin, and a number of other nobles. All, clearly waiting for Aefric’s arrival.

  “You’re not late,” Beornric said softly, just as Aefric had begun speeding his pace.

  Tension sang through Aefric’s shoulders. An old habit, from his adventuring days. Keeping nobles waiting, back then, had always been a bad idea.

  But one thing his advisers had been emphasizing ever since Aefric took up his post. He was now the one people expected to wait for. To stand for, when he entered a room.

  He was now a peer of the realm, and had to act the part.

  So, rather than speed his pace across the wide granite path that led to the gate and the stairs up to the battlements, Aefric slowed his breathing — hoping his speeding heart would follow suit — and matched his pace to his breaths.

  And as he walked, he focused on the excited murmuring of a multitude beyond the walls. The smells of enough cooking food to feed so many.

  His stomach rumbled in response. He hoped the opening ceremonies wouldn’t take too long.

  Beornric marched at Aefric’s right hand, two respectful steps behind. The rest of his knights followed, marching two-by-two, with the porters and servants bringing up the rear.

  Aefric mused, wondering if he would ever truly go anywhere alone again in his life.

  As he ascended the granite stairs, Aefric found himself wondering how it was that Herewyn hadn’t plastered and painted the inside of that keep.

  Last night, all that granite had seemed impressive. Soothing, in its way, especially when he thought of the magic involved, shaping so much stone with such smooth precision.

  But now, by daylight, only a single morning later, he realized he’d be sick to death of granite by the time he left.

  And he would only be staying the three days of the Feast.

  As he reached the battlements, Herewyn was waiting for him. Resplendent in a long tunic of sapphire blue, over black hose, with her rapier at her side. Her long, fiery hair tamed back in a series of braids.

  “Good day, your grace,” she said, giving Aefric a very personal smile before she offered her hand.

  “Good day, Herewyn,” he said and kissed her hand. The crowd oohed approval. She then pressed her forehead to his knuckles, and the crowd cheered.

  The crowd reactions struck Aefric as odd, and he found himself glancing out past the walls.

  There had to have been more than two or three thousand people watching. All ages, sizes and shapes, though he noticed that none wore dresses, gowns, or skirts of any kind. Everyone he could see wore some kind of tunic and leggings combination.

  Not just the humans, either. Aefric was even sure he saw a few eldrani in the crowd. And he counted three na’shek.

  Of course, the eldrani were easy to spot because their hair only seemed to come in vivid colors.

  And the na’shek, well, they stood easily two heads taller than even the tallest humans in the crowd, and wider by about the same margin. Not to mention their easily noticed skin in shades of slate gray.

  All these people, assembled for the Feast. And a good many of them seemed honestly pleased to witness so simple a formal exchange between their baroness and her liege.

  Count Ferrin stepped up next.

  Ferrin was a short man. His skin fashionably pale. He kept his cheeks smooth, and his short brown hair streaked with blonde. But whether he was trim with muscle, or merely skinny from indolence, Aefric couldn’t tell. Not under clothing so exhausting just to look upon.

  The many reds and oranges of Ferrin’s silk tunic and hose were simply too much. Aefric could feel his eyes tiring, trying to make sense of it all. Trying to find some sort of pattern in the chaos.

  At least he seemed to have gotten the message about jewelry. More or less. True, he’d foregone the excessive number of rings, bracelets and such he normally wore. And yet, he was not completely bereft of gold, either.

  He wore a thick gold chain, ending in a heavy gold pendant bearing the sigil of his county: a black bull, rampant, facing to the dexter.

  Ferrin wore a longsword at his side, but his posture said he didn’t wear it often. And its heavily bejeweled scabbard looked new.

  “Your grace,” Ferrin said, extending his hand. “I feared midday would pass without the Feast beginning.”

  Aefric heard Herewyn draw breath to say something, but spoke first.

  “Ah, Ferrin,” he said. “Always making trouble where none should exist.”

  He kissed Ferrin’s hand then, but Ferrin opted not to press his forehead to Aefric’s knuckles in a show of devotion, which made Herewyn cluck her tongue.

  After all, a great many people were watching.

  Before Ferrin could say anything else, Sighild stepped up, smiling brightly. She wore a long silk tunic that matched the green of her eyes, over dark brown leggings. Her so-long red hair was bound attractively in a series of braids that were wound together at the base of her neck.

  “Good day, your grace,” Sighild said, and eagerly offered Aefric her hand.

  Ferrin scoffed.

  As Aefric was Sighild’s overlord, she more than had the right to offer Aefric her hand this way. But from the distaste in Ferrin’s expression, he must’ve felt that only a direct vassal should be offering her hand to a duke.

  “Always a pleasure, Sighild,” Aefric said, and kissed her hand. She didn’t hesitate to press her forehead to his knuckles.

  Another round of cheers from the crowd. Softer than Herewyn had gotten, but Aefric noted it all the same.

  “Really,” Ferrin muttered.

  But if he didn’t like Sighild — a future baroness — offering Aefric her knuckles, the line behind her must’ve driven him crazy.

  There were another dozen minor nobles up on the wall. All dressed in tunics and leggings. Each armed with some weapon or other hanging from their belts.

  All of them likely important people, here in the barony, but none of them with names Aefric would ever even have to learn, should he choose not to.

  And yet, likely following Sighild’s example, each stepped up to offer his or her hand to their duke. Some of them almost quivering with excitement.

  Aefric found out later that the year before, when Prince Killian had attended as Duke Regent of Deepwater, he had declined to kiss any hand but that of his hostess, the baroness.

  But Aefric kissed the hand of each noble down the line, to the crowd’s approval.

  And by the time they were done with this, only Ferrin had not pressed his forehead to Aefric’s knuckles.

  From the look in Ferrin’s eyes, he might have been questioning the wisdom of his little public slight. But as slights go, this one was small. The pressing of forehead to knuckles was never considered a requirement. Only an optional display of devotion.

  But from the buzz of the nearest crowd at the base of the walls, some had noticed the absence of Ferrin’s show of devotion.

  Aefric was tempted to let Ferrin twist. He’d made the decision, he should have to live with the public’s response.

  But was an event such as this one really the time?

  Aefric turned to say something to his reluctant vassal, but just then trumpeters blew a two-note rise, which was echoed by other trumpeters throughout Asarchai. And perhaps in the fields beyond.

  The trumpeters sounded their two notes again, followed by their echoes through the crowd.

  They sounded one more time, and all eyes turned to Herewyn.