Somewhere nearby, Herewyn laughed delightedly.

  “At last, I have managed to impress your grace,” she said, stepping up, taking his free hand, and bowing over it.

  When she came up, her smile matched her tone, but not her outfit.

  No silk for Herewyn today. She wore gold-washed chainmail. Her long hair was bound at the base of her neck and her head was crowned with a gold-washed half-helm complete with nose guard. At her side hung her rapier.

  “I doubt any could look upon such a sight and fail to be impressed,” he said. “How many does this ‘theater’ seat?”

  “A little more than thirty thousand comfortably,” she said, still apparently delighted at Aefric’s reaction. “Though, alas, we have not drawn such crowds since before the start of the wars. Today, I expect closer to ten.”

  “Still impressive,” Aefric said.

  “I should think an attendance in the neighborhood of eight to ten thousand sounds right,” Sighild said, stepping up beside Herewyn.

  Sighild was clad like her cousin, down the half-helm, though she looked less sure of herself in the armor.

  Nevertheless, she did her best to outshine Herewyn with her smile.

  “My cousin has outdone herself in planning the events of this, the second day,” Sighild continued. “Word will have spread, and doubtless everyone in the region will attend, if able.”

  Aefric looked from one smiling redhead to the other, and remembered what Arras had told him.

  “A kiss before the battle, Sighild?”

  “Please, your grace!”

  With a smile, he took her in his arms. She practically beamed in response. Kissing Sighild was always a joy. Her lips were soft, her tongue nimble, and she always kissed Aefric as though there were nothing in this or any other world that she would rather be doing.

  And that morning she surprised Aefric by kissing him with an enthusiasm he would not have believed her capable of. At least, not in public.

  Sighild was still smiling when the kiss ended, and said, “Live through the battle, my dear, that I might claim another kiss.”

  Herewyn — who had been smiling in approval at her cousin — raised her eyebrows at Aefric, and said, “Your grace?”

  He bowed, smiling and took the baroness in his arms. She didn’t try to outdo her cousin’s sheer enthusiasm, but by all the gods that woman could kiss. They might still have been kissing when the sun came up, if someone nearby hadn’t cleared their throat.

  When they parted, Herewyn said, her voice a little throaty, “Live through the battle, my dear, that I might claim another kiss.”

  That must’ve been the woman’s line, because neither she nor Sighild seemed to expect Aefric to say it. Although he wondered if there was something he was supposed to say in response. If so, why hadn’t he been told?

  He was saved from a moment of potential awkwardness, though, because Deirdre stepped up from behind and tapped him on the shoulder.

  Deirdre had long enjoyed teasing Aefric with innuendo. To such a degree that Yrsa had recently implored Aefric to finally take the redheaded knight to his bed, saying that otherwise she’d go mad with frustration.

  But Aefric had believed it was all a game on Deirdre’s part. After all, a playful beauty like her doubtless had any number of men and women lining up to share her bed.

  Still, there was something in Deirdre’s eye as he turned to face her then. Something that said her desire for this kiss was no mere game.

  As Aefric took Deirdre in his arms, she held him tight. And she kissed him with such passion that the world seemed to fall away. Nothing more could have existed than this amazing woman in Aefric’s arms, and the dance of their lips and tongues.

  For the first time, Aefric understood that she had never been teasing. Well, she had been teasing, but her teasing was sincere. That her desire for him was very, very real, and very, very primal.

  Finally, Beornric tapped Aefric on the shoulder and muttered, “Sun will be up soon, and a couple of these serving women look hopeful, your grace.”

  Aefric composed himself and pulled back from the kiss. It seemed for a moment that Deirdre intended to fight to keep the kiss going, but she shook herself and leaned back.

  She said the words, plain and simple, just as Sighild and Herewyn had said them.

  “Live through the battle, my dear, that I might claim another kiss.”

  But the look Deirdre gave Aefric made clear that she was nowhere near done with him.

  Sure enough, Bess and two other serving women claimed kisses from Aefric before he was done, as well as one of the serving men. And Aefric wasn’t the only one getting kissed. Ferrin kissed Herewyn and Sighild as well — though those kisses were more perfunctory — as well as all four of the same servants.

  The count didn’t approach Deirdre to see if she wanted a kiss. He looked a little intimidated by the prospect, and for her part, Deirdre didn’t look as though she’d allow it.

  Ferrin was also kitted for war for The Day of Battle. He wore full plate armor, also washed with gold, complete with half-helm and nose guard, and the sigil of Motte enameled on his breastplate. Instead of his usual rapier, he wore a longsword at his side in a gem-encrusted scabbard.

  “I confess,” he said, nodding at Aefric’s robes, “today I envy your grace’s wizardry. Come mid-afternoon, he’ll be much more comfortable in his silks than the knights and I will be in our full plate.”

  Deirdre cleared her throat pointedly.

  “Please excuse me, Ser Deirdre,” Ferrin said with more grace than Aefric expected of him. “You’re likely to be the most comfortable of us all, in your leathers.”

  He gave her the salute of a noble to a knight, and she bowed in return.

  They took their seats then. Herewyn and Aefric in the middle of the row, with the Brightstaff standing right behind Aefric’s seat. Sighild, Deirdre and Beornric to Aefric’s right. Ferrin and Ler Gwalter to Herewyn’s left, with one seat empty.

  Gwalter had been the last to arrive, and missed all the kissing. Possibly by design.

  Either way, by the time the ler entered — clad in chainmail and longsword, with a chainmail coif for a helm — the others were already seated and the sun had begun peeking over the far side of the theater.

  That put the sunshine in their eyes at the moment, but Aefric suspected he’d be glad they were facing east when the afternoon heat hit.

  Herewyn made a gesture with her left hand, and a pair of servants lowered an awning that came just low enough to block the sun.

  She turned to Aefric with a smile. “Mustn’t damage your grace’s pretty eyes.”

  “That would be a shame,” Sighild said, almost sounding jealous of her cousin for a moment.

  Had that kiss bothered her?

  But jealousy, so far as Aefric knew, was relatively rare in Armyr. That was supposed to be a major reason for the noble privilege.

  A question for another time.

  With the sun brightening the view around the general seating more than the scattered torches had provided, Aefric could get a better look at what lay before him.

  Many of the lower tiers of granite benches were filling in with spectators from all walks of life. From fancy nobles and wealthy merchants closer to the arena itself — all armed and clad in some kind of armor, of course — to roughspun-clad common folk up on the higher levels. Some of whom carried weapons as well.

  Aefric could easily believe that close to ten thousand people would be in attendance.

  And down below them all, in the arena itself, looked to be the countryside of Norra, done in miniature.

  The center of the arena was cut through by an arc of water representing the Fyrsa River. The dirt of the arena floor was covered with wild grass, as many of the fields around Asarchai were, and included copses of oaks and beeches, and areas devoted to local varieties of shrubs. There were even the swells of hills.

  Looking down, Aefric felt almost as though he were flying over the area around this town, as it had been — or was believed to have been — thousands of years ago.

  “This must’ve taken a full season to prepare for,” Aefric said.

  “Hardly, your grace,” came a familiar voice behind him.

  Aefric turned to see Vohlcairna Burrew, entering alone, and walking towards the remaining seat, to Gwalter’s left.

  Burrew was a woman who appeared to be some two or three times Aefric’s age. Her skin was several different shades of brown, as was her simple clothing, and the two blended well enough that a casual observer might think her naked, but for her darker cloak, and thick, heavy boots.

  Her face was heavily lined, and her dark brown hair liberally streaked with silver. She was surprisingly lean, considering that she projected a sense of solidity beyond even that of the granite that surrounded her.

  She carried no staff. But as a nod to the mock-battle preparations of the day, she wore two wands at her belt.

  “Good to see you, Burrew,” Aefric said. “And marvelous work with the tower.”

  “Your grace is most kind,” Burrew said with a half-bow before taking her seat. “And I meant nothing dismissive by my comment before, only that, for a vohlcairn, arranging a battlefield like this one takes no more than an aett. And only that long because of the river.”

  “Water is trickier then?” Aefric asked.

  “I could have diverted the river,” she said with a modest smile, “but that would have taken even longer, and caused other problems.”

  “No need to get the farmers up in arms,” Herewyn said. “A simulation of the river is more than good enough for our purposes.”

  “Of course, your lordship.” Burrew said.

  “So,” Aefric said. “We’re to watch a recreation of the battle?”

  “Among other things,” Herewyn said.

  “Did you actually bring in derekek for this?”

  “No, your grace,” she said. “We’ve never found any interested in commemorating this battle.”

  Beornric chuckled at that and said, “Unsurprising.”

  “They used to use makeup and costuming,” Sighild said, “to give human actors a derekek look, but—”

  “But that was determined to be rude the derekek,” Herewyn said.

  “Instead,” Sighild continued, “they just completely enclose the actors in armor, and make sure their tabards bear the crossed axes sigil of Emperor Orsk. Gets the point across.”

  “We do the same thing for the taroks and borogs,” Herewyn said. “Though we do get enough na’shek actors to represent the na’shek forces that took part.”

  “I might be able to get you some borogs for next year,” Aefric said, thinking of the colony he’d allowed to take up residence in the far northern part of his lands. “Though we’d have to be very sure they understood this was a mock battle.”

  “It’s true then,” Herewyn said, frowning. “Your grace has allowed a tribe of borogs to reside in Deepwater, in the Dragonscar?”

  “I have,” Aefric said, in a tone that brooked no challenge.

  “Your grace does as he feels best, of course,” Herewyn said. “But I confess I would rather not have them here in Norra. Some wounds are too fresh.”

  Aefric almost pushed that point. He wanted to get people past the prejudices that had deepened during the Godswalk Wars. To help them understand that the borog armies who’d swept this direction had been under the wild influence of that evil god, Xazik the Flayer. That borogs themselves were no more evil or good than any of Qorunn’s other peoples.

  But he knew Herewyn was thinking of her lost husband.

  It was too soon for her. And likely too soon for Norra, as well as Goldenfall. And perhaps for Motte, given the amazement he saw now on Ferrin’s face…

  “I will not impose them on you,” Aefric said. “They are content to be mining for me in the Dragonscar.”

  “Is it true?” Ferrin asked hesitantly. “That they can smell gold?”

  “I’ve witnessed it,” Aefric said, and Beornric added, “As have I.”

  “Might we change the subject?” Herewyn asked, looking a little pale, which, for an Armyrian noble, was saying something.

  “Of course,” Aefric said. “What else will we enjoy, beyond the recreation of the battle?”

  “The best way to tell you that, your grace,” Herewyn said, gathering herself with a smile, “would be to show you.”

  She stood, stepped up to the rail, and nodded.

  Trumpeters who must’ve been standing just below the baronial box raised their instruments and blew that same rising two-note sequence from the day before.

  And like the day before, other trumpeters around the coliseum echoed those notes.

  Beyond the coliseum itself, Aefric heard yet more trumpeters play that same sequence, perhaps all the way out to the very outskirts of Asarchai.

  The trumpeters sounded twice more. And then Herewyn raised her hands as she had yesterday, middle fingers crossed.

  The gesture seemed to sweep like a wave across the crowd, until every one of the ten or so thousand seemed to be standing, facing the baronial box, and mimicking Herewyn’s pose.

  She brought her hands down in front of her chest, crossed at the wrist, with the tips of her thumbs touching.

  With inconsistent timing, the crowd echoed the movement.

  “Welcome,” Herewyn called in a ringing voice, “to the second day of the Feast of Dereth Sehk. The Day of Battle!”

  She paused while the crowd cheered.

  “Today, we celebrate the final battle itself. With music and dance and songs. And most of all, with a recreation of the very battle that brought down the fell forces of Emperor Orsk!”

  More cheering. This time, Herewyn didn’t wait for it to die out. She raised her voice over it.

  “And the triumph of Dereth Sehk!”

  “Dereth Sehk! Dereth Sehk!” the crowd chanted, and kept chanting until Herewyn raised her hands once more.

  Silence spread through the crowd as they too raised their hands to match her.

  Once the crowd was quiet, she brought her hands down and crossed them again, leading the crowd to do the same.

  “So,” she said, projecting her voice as well as any skald. “Let the festivities begin. In the name of Dereth Sehk!”

  The crowd cheered wildly, while a veritable army of musicians came out onto the field, and began to play.

  Aefric eagerly looked down from the baronial box, but the musicians were not quite ready to begin. Just as well, as breakfast was served.

  The traditional Armyrian breakfast, in fact. Sliced meats and cheeses with a selection of ripe fruits, along with honeyed oat bread, and water to drink.

  The meats were roasted to perfection, and still hot from the spit. The fruits — mostly berries, along with slices of apple and orange — were ripe to the point of bursting. And the honeyed oat bread was still oven-warm.

  Heavenly.

  “Did you know, your grace,” Herewyn said, “that we owe our traditional Armyrian breakfast to Dereth Sehk as well?”

  “Forgive me, your lordship,” Beornric said, “but I’m not sure that’s true.”

  “According to accounts,” Herewyn said, not looking at all disturbed by the interruption, “sliced meats, cheeses, and fruits were served with honeyed oat bread on the day of the great battle. And to drink before the battle, of course, Dereth Sehk allowed only water.”

  “Again,” Beornric said, “I do not mean to give offense, your lordship. But I’ve heard the same thing said of every great battle in the history of Armyr. All of them try to lay claim to being the reason behind our breakfast tradition.”

  “You cannot give offense by being mistaken, good sir knight,” Herewyn said with a smile. “For I trust you realize that in discussing Dereth Sehk, we speak of a time thousands of years before Armyr came to be, or any of its great battles took place.”

  “I confess,” Deirdre said. “I do find it hard to believe that any tradition could last after such cataclysmic events. I suspect that after the great battle, people ate whatever they could get their hands on. No matter the time of day.”

  “A discussion for another time,” Aefric said, seeing a certain fire arise in Herewyn’s eyes. “I believe the musicians are about to begin.”

  Herewyn settled back in her chair, and Sighild leaned in close to whisper, “Well handled, your grace,” and give him a small smile.

  The first pieces of the day were instrumentals, and all of them with a military sort of feel to them.

  The musicians began in groups. A set of players on the lyre, before the lutes and mandolins.

  Each of these were given a time to play by themselves. And then deep, booming drums accompanied them, and lyre, lute and mandolin came in together.

  Aefric began to hear in the harmonies and rhythms something he hadn’t expected. Four types of instruments, coming together for one song in a way that called to mind the four races that came together under the banner of Dereth Sehk: human, na’shek, borog and tarok.

  When that sequence of songs finished, a single violin — standing high on a hillside near the makeshift river — filled the silence with sorrow. A sorrow shared by others, for from the lengths and breadths of the coliseum came other violinists. More than twenty, easily.

  All of them played the same tune at first, but then they split into mournful harmonies, supported by a series of cellists along the river, and a soft, tapping kind of drumbeat among the hills.

  They were playing for the sorrow felt by all four of those races. The many, many losses they’d all shared, as they fled and fled from the armies of Emperor Orsk, before coming together here, anchored by the land we know now as Norra.

  As the music reached its lamenting crescendo, that first violin cried out above the rest — in a note of hope.

  Sudden silence, save for the weeping of many, many spectators. Even Aefric felt his eyes well up, and he could hear Herewyn, Sighild, and he was pretty sure Ferrin, all sniffling. Certainly all three dabbed at their eyes with handkerchiefs.

  The music struck up again, but only a set of drummers playing rough, rapid, clashing beats. It was strange enough that Aefric almost questioned it, but before he could, he saw the dancers.