He found himself honestly smiling for the first time in hours, and Sighild noticed as she approached.

  “It pleases me that your grace smiles at the mere sight of me,” she said, giving him a teasing smile of her own, and a slight bow.

  “I would challenge anyone to look upon you,” Aefric said, “especially when you’re so happy, and not smile.”

  “Alas, your grace,” Ferrin said, joining them, “during the Feast of Dereth Sehk, a noble can only accept the first challenge of the day.” Smiling, he gave Sighild a slight bow. “Though I freely admit, I would lose this challenge.”

  Sighild laughed, sounding even more pleased, but tilted her head slightly as she looked at Aefric.

  “And yet,” she said, raising one eyebrow, “I note that your grace does not seem to have taken the same joy in the day’s festivities that his excellency and I both clearly have.”

  Aefric was torn. On the one hand, he didn’t want to admit the reason Sighild was right. On the other, he didn’t want to lie. Not to Sighild, as a matter of general course. And not even to Ferrin. Not right now. He and Ferrin were actually getting along, and from that curious frown, the count honestly wanted to know.

  “It was the realization that we needed tasters,” Aefric said through a sigh. “It turned my mind to thoughts of assassins. Made the day difficult to enjoy.”

  “Was there an attempt?” Sighild asked, serious now.

  “Two,” Beornric answered.

  This news slammed shock into Aefric like a battering ram. Looking back later, he was impressed that he hadn’t staggered back a step.

  “But I don’t believe either was serious,” Beornric continued. “And both were stopped well short of his grace.”

  Aefric fought to school his expression. Though it was all he could do not to demand details. Or at least give Beornric a look that would warn him of a serious discussion to come.

  But from the way Ferrin and Sighild were looking at Aefric, he’d been too slow to cover his reaction. Though Sighild looked almost as upset by the news as Aefric was.

  “I presume,” Ferrin said slowly, “your grace never had to deal with assassins during his adventuring days?”

  “I did,” Aefric said, managing a brief half-smile and something like a normal tone. “But I was never their target.”

  “As titled nobles, and titled nobles to be” — Ferrin nodded to Sighild — “we are all targets. Every day of our lives might be the day that our enemies strike.”

  “And we must trust in our guards,” Aefric said. “I know. And I do. I have some of the best in the business. But I am still acclimating to being the one guarded, rather than the one who stands in harm’s way.”

  He shook his head. “The transition … is difficult sometimes.”

  “Your grace,” Pemith said, from just behind Ferrin, “may I speak?”

  Aefric nodded, noting that Ferrin didn’t look surprised that his knight had spoken up.

  “Your grace, my father’s cousin, Ser Indith, served as a knight under Ler Klostich Ol’Ultallich.”

  “The Ol’Ultallich land,” Ferrin said softly, “is close to both the Threepeaks and the eastern edge of my county.”

  “The ler was having problems with his neighbor,” Pemith continued. “Doesn’t matter which one. But the problem grew heated. One night, an assassin came for the ler.”

  She lowered her voice, reverentially.

  “Ser Indith battled the assassin in the ler’s own bedroom. The assassin was good. Ser Indith was … not so young as he had been. The ler recognized that his trusted knight was losing the fight. Would likely die.”

  Aefric had the bad feeling that he knew where this was going. But he didn’t interrupt.

  “Instead of escaping to safety during the fight, the ler, wearing nothing more than a nightshirt, grabbed his own sword off the wall and rushed in to save his knight.”

  Pemith shook her head slowly. “Smooth as a windless lake, the assassin shifted targets and killed the ler. She escaped before any could stop her.”

  “And what of the knight?” Beornric asked, as though he already knew the answer.

  “The knight drank himself to death,” Pemith said. “Cursing himself, his failure, and his life until the end of his days.”

  All around Aefric, Beornric and the Knights of the Lake all nodded grimly. Sighild’s eyes shone with unshed tears.

  “The question isn’t whether or not I understand this,” Aefric said. “The question is one of retraining habits. I am accustomed to risking my life alongside warriors such as those who have now sworn themselves to my service.”

  “Come now,” Herewyn said, smiling as she approached, arms raised. “Now is not the time for glum faces and sad stories. Now is not the time for recriminations, or worries over old habits.”

  They hadn’t been speaking very loudly. Just how much had she overheard? Or was Herewyn so good that she guessed?

  “The sun is low, and we have reached the first night of the Feast of Dereth Sehk.”

  She lowered her arms, still smiling, as she reached Aefric, Ferrin and Sighild, while the minor nobles all arrayed themselves nearby.

  Aefric noticed that the only knights near him now were his own, and Pemith. The dozen or so others all stood on the other side of the group of minor nobles.

  “So the Day of Challenges has ended?” Aefric asked.

  “Oh, no, your grace,” Herewyn said, with a knowing look in her eye, while some of the other nobles laughed softly. “But the nighttime challenges … are of a different nature. One that the common folk don’t feel the need to have witnessed by nobles.”

  That look in her eye. The tenor of that laughter. Did she mean…

  “You’re kidding,” Aefric said.

  “Not in the least, your grace,” Herewyn said with a teasing smile that put Sighild’s to shame. “Your grace must keep in mind that, at the time when Dereth Sehk was rallying everyone he could, the forces of Emperor Orsk lay between us and the rest of Qorunn.”

  “And Orsk’s people didn’t just conquer,” Aefric said. “They burned.”

  “Not everywhere,” Herewyn said. “Mainly temples and holy sites. But at the time, this distinction was … unclear. So far as Dereth Sehk’s people knew, they were the last humans, na’shek, borogs and taroks in all of Qorunn.”

  Aefric was chuckling now. “So they were encouraged to have babies.”

  “As many as they could, as soon as they could manage,” Herewyn agreed. “And in memory of this, on the first night of the Feast, the common folk… Well, let’s just say there’s a thriving trade in nysta tea.”

  Everyone was laughing now, Aefric included.

  “But we among the nobility gather to commemorate the night before the great battle. We dance, and feast, and drink in Dereth Sehk’s name.”

  She stepped up to the front doors of her tower, Aefric beside her, and all the other nobles and knights following behind.

  The tower doors were closed, which Aefric thought strange, until Herewyn spoke.

  “We bring good news,” she called in ringing tones. “All have answered the call. Human and na’shek. Borog and tarok. All have come, and all make ready. Throw wide the doors, that the leaders might feast one last time before dawn brings us to the field of battle!”

  The doors of the tower opened. Musicians somewhere past the torch-lit entryway struck up a light, enthusiastic tune.

  “Your grace?” Herewyn said, offering Aefric her arm. “May I have the honor of the first dance?”

  Aefric was only too happy to accept.

  Aefric had never danced so much in his life. True, as an adventurer, dancing had never been a common pastime for him. In fact, he’d only ever learned because of his time as apprentice to Kainemorton.

  It seemed that the Mage of Marrisford would not have an apprentice who couldn’t dance. So he’d brought in a series of dancing teachers from all across Qorunn, and simply added more lessons to Aefric’s already busy schedule of trying to learn the ways of magic from a man who’d been practicing the Art since the Risen Sea was a vast valley.

  That night in Asarchai though, Aefric was beyond grateful to his old master for those lessons.

  There were paired dances for partners of different genders and others for partners of the same gender, as well as many that allowed for dancer’s choice of partner.

  There were group dances, for as few as three and as many as eight, and some that included all the dancers as part of a great, single moving organism.

  Every dance had some kind of significance in its ties to the Feast. Romantic dances representing love found during the desperate fight for life. Dances of friendship that represented new comrades in arms on a personal level. Dances of alliance that represented the coming together of unknown peoples and sometime enemies on a larger scale.

  There were dances of celebration at the unity all these various peoples found under the banner of Dereth Sehk. And dances of mourning, in honor of those whose lives had already been lost to Orsk’s spreading empire.

  There were even dances where no one was allowed a partner at all. Each person was to dance alone on the floor, as a reminder that when the battle was over, all of those new friends and lovers and allies might lay dead upon the field.

  They danced for hours that night in the great hall of the tower, taking breaks only for food and drink, when needed. But again, all food and drink were taken standing, off to the side of the hall, opposite the only chairs, which ringed the other three sides.

  The food was light fare, easily eaten while standing. Spears of roast meats and vegetables. Soft, honeyed oat rolls, with plenty of butter available. Root vegetables like carrots, jicama, radishes, beets and parsnips had all been sliced into crisp sticks for easy consumption.

  The drinks were light, pale red wines. Likely watered, to keep the dancers from growing drunken as the night continued.

  Those chairs stood empty, for the first hour or two of the dance. No one was allowed to sit until they could dance no longer.

  And each time someone finally did sit, a solo dance was called for, as though to mourn the loss of that person on the field of battle.

  After Aefric realized this, he resolved to be the last one dancing.

  It was somewhere around the time of that realization that he spotted an unexpected, but familiar sight. Deep maroon red leather armor, among all the bright silk and gleaming full plate. And a twirling long red braid, a shade not much lighter than that armor.

  No sooner did he notice both, than the owner of that hair and armor shot him a wicked smile as she danced.

  Ser Deirdre Ol’Miri? When had she arrived?

  He hadn’t known she was coming to the Feast, but the sight of her made him laugh happily all the same as the dancing continued.

  Getting into the spirit of the Feast, Aefric danced with everyone he could. Though a few of the petty nobles sat before he got around to them.

  Still, he danced with all of the knights, most of the lers and other petty nobles, and of course, Herewyn, Sighild, and Ferrin.

  Ferrin hadn’t been lying, either. The man was an amazing dancer. Grace, poise, style and stamina. When it came to dancing, he had all of these things, in abundance.

  As the evening wore on, and more and more dancers were forced to sit, Aefric began to feel fatigue setting in. And with it came doubt that he would be the last one dancing.

  Specifically, he wasn’t sure he could outlast either Ferrin or Deirdre. Both hardly looked to have broken a sweat, even though Aefric himself had begun get feel complaints from his legs and lower back.

  By the time Herewyn had to surrender and find a seat — she was clearly exhausted and on the brink of collapse, and yet her movements remained graceful, and her posture pristine — only Aefric, Sighild, Ferrin and Deirdre remained dancing. And Sighild hardly outlasted her cousin.

  And then there were three.

  With only three dancers remaining, couple’s dances were not an option. So after the obligatory solo dance of mourning, they came together for group dances of celebration, of alliance, and of celebration again before breaking off for a solo dance that represented efforts on the battlefield.

  Aefric made the mistake of putting a little too much effort into that one. He stumbled, which brought concerned sounds from the watchers, and several of his knights stood from their chairs, as though ready to rush in and help him.

  Aefric waved them away — noticing, as he did, that many of those knights looked less exhausted than they’d pretended to be when they stopped dancing — but he took the warning from his feet as his sign that he was done.

  He called the Brightstaff to his hand from where it stood waiting in a corner of the room, and claimed a seat between Herewyn and Sighild, to watch Ferrin and Deirdre dance in symbolic mourning of his loss.

  Deirdre was so committed to that dance that she actually shed tears.

  From there, Deirdre and Ferrin put on quite a show as they tried to outdo each other. Ferrin was clearly the better trained dancer. His movements and posture were more precise and skilled. But Deirdre had him for natural grace and sheer energy.

  In the end, she simply outlasted him. Ferrin finally had to bow and admit defeat, after which Deirdre danced an extra-long dance of mourning. She moved through the room, to every chair, and danced part of her dance for each fallen dancer.

  She finished, though, not in front of Ferrin, but in front of Aefric. She sank to her knees before him, bowed her head, and said, “Tonight I dance in honor of Dereth Sehk. But even this I do in the name of your grace, my liege.”

  Aefric was nonplussed. He had no idea at all how he was supposed to react to that.

  Beside him, Herewyn blinked surprise, but began clapping. All the other knights and nobles followed suit until their applause echoed riotously in the hall.

  Deirdre remained kneeling, smiling and panting for breath, even when the applause died down. She did not rise until Aefric reached out, took her hand, and drew her to her feet.

  When he did, Herewyn said, to all assembled, “On the Day of Challenges, we strive in the name of Dereth Sehk, in all the ways we can imagine that were done in the days leading up to that final, fateful battle. But there has always been one quality that Dereth Sehk sought, that we could not simply represent with a challenge.”

  Herewyn gave those words a moment, as though to let her listeners speculate on the answer, before she told them.

  “Loyalty,” she said. “Dereth Sehk became the hero we know and honor because of the loyalty he inspired in his followers. And today, we have been privileged to witness a display of loyalty that would have made Dereth Sehk proud.”

  She gestured to Deirdre.

  “Each of us tonight were dancing for ourselves, and for Dereth Sehk. And yet, this knight managed to outlast the finest dancer in all of Armyr — our own Count Ferrin Ol’Nylla of Motte — because she danced for something more than herself. She danced for her liege.”

  Herewyn shook her head in amazement.

  “I have attended the Feast every year for as far back as I can remember,” she said. “And yet never before have I witnessed such a display of loyalty. And I wish to acknowledge that by inviting you, Ser Deirdre Ol’Miri, to join us in the baronial box for tomorrow’s festivities as my honored guest.”

  “May I, your grace?” Deirdre asked, and if there was any irony at all in her tone or intention, Aefric couldn’t spot it.

  “Of course,” he said, smiling. “You would be most welcome.”

  “Then I am quite happy to accept, your lordship,” Deirdre said, giving Herewyn a bow. “Thank you very much.”

  Herewyn turned to the assemblage once more.

  “And all of you who strove to your utmost in the dancing” — Aefric noted that she gave slightly askance looks at some of the knights — “will find a small token of my esteem, waiting for you either on your way out, or in your rooms, as appropriate.”

  A general murmur of thanks washed through the crowd, and most of the nobles and knights began to leave.

  “That is the end of the first day, then?”

  “Not quite, your grace,” Sighild said, stepping forward with a shy smile. “The common folk aren’t the only ones who honor Dereth Sehk with … nighttime efforts.”

  “Then by all means,” Aefric said, taking her arm, “let us go honor him.”

  4

  For the second morning in a row, Aefric woke up alone. This time it was close to dawn when he woke, and he had a clearer memory of his abandonment than he’d had the day before.

  It couldn’t have been much earlier when a servant came in and woke Sighild. Aefric remembered stirring at the sound of hushed voices, and Sighild trying to get out of bed without waking him.

  Little chance of that. He’d been holding her in his sleep, after a marvelous night together. Even if he might’ve overlooked the sudden loss of her soft, sleep-warmed skin, there was the small matter of getting her out from under his arm.

  Nevertheless, the effort must’ve been valiant, because Aefric knew he couldn’t have been more than half-awake when Sighild hushed him, kissed him, and promised to see him soon.

  He must’ve fallen straight back asleep, though, because he definitely didn’t remember her leaving the room.

  The next thing he remembered was a servant — Bess, it turned out — rousing him from sleep and telling him it was time to dress.

  His clothes for the day were laid out and ready. Wizard’s robes of midnight blue silk decorated liberally with silver-embroidered symbols of a kind more casually associated with magic than used in actual spellwork.

  No hat for today, of course, though that much black silk might get a bit warm. Why had Dajen packed that robe?

  “It has to be the robe today?” Aefric asked Bess, who made no attempt to avert her eyes as Aefric emerged naked from the bed.

  “Everyone is expected to dress as for battle today,” she said, offering Aefric a dressing gown of thin white linen.

  “And such robes are traditional for magic-users,” Aefric said with a sigh as he donned the dressing gown. He briefly considered opting for the dweomerblade look instead — he qualified as one, after all — but there were two problems with that.