“There. Perfect. The very image of Maddox himself.”

  Maddox. The name sounded vaguely familiar to old memories he had as Keifer, but Aefric didn’t know the name at all.

  “Maddox?”

  “Your grace doesn’t know the stories of Maddox?” Octave sounded scandalized. “An ancient wandering skald, solving problems and satisfying women everywhere he went.” She smirked. “So the resemblance extends beyond the physical.”

  Aefric laughed. “Perhaps another hat would be more appropriate for a duke, then.”

  “No, please, your grace,” Octave implored. “I tease, but the hat is most becoming. Please wear it.”

  “Very well,” Aefric said.

  “Thank you, your grace,” Octave said with a bow. “And now, I should be about my duties.”

  “Wait,” Aefric said, taking her by the shoulder as she turned away.

  Octave turned back, curious.

  “I am, after all, permitted to give a present to the woman who offers me leaba.”

  Gifts were allowed, though not required. And nothing that could be construed as payment. So nothing in the way of coin, of course, or anything too valuable.

  But Aefric had taken to carrying things he could give as gifts for such occasions.

  In Kivash, where Duchess Ashling had permitted two women to offer him leaba together on each of three straight nights, he’d thrilled them with beautiful ivory combs.

  Apparently they hadn’t expected anything more than his company.

  The first time Octave had given him leaba, he’d given her a bolt of fine cloth that matched the blue of her eyes.

  This time, he’d brought something more personal, just in case she came to him again.

  Aefric dug in the second large, wooden trunk for his old adventuring backpack. A massive, leather thing, strewn with more pockets than most would ever need, which meant almost enough pockets to suit him.

  From within a small pocket sewn inside the main, central pouch of the backpack, he retrieved a simple, thin gold chain, with a faceted, teardrop crystal of purple rubellite.

  Not what Andi had given him, of course. The links of that chain had been finer still, and the crystal had been quartz.

  But the reference was obvious.

  “Oh, your grace,” Octave said, sounding astonished. “I couldn’t. It’s too fine. And—”

  “There is symmetry between this and another necklace,” Aefric said. “The woman who gave me the other necklace, I loved her more than life itself. After she died, I thought I would never hold another woman again. Never … do a lot of things again.”

  He held up the gold chain with its rubellite.

  “Fitting,” he said, “that this necklace goes to the woman who reminded me that I am not dead. And that the woman whom I loved so fiercely would want to see me happy again. Would want to see me … seek love with women again. Seek pleasure, with women again.”

  Aefric held the necklace up in both hands, and Octave, eyes misty and lips trembling, leaned forward so he could put it around her neck.

  Once it was in place, he kissed her gently.

  “Thank you, Octave. For everything.”

  “I promise you, your grace,” Octave said, looking him in the eye, “the honor and the pleasure were mine.”

  The sitting room in Aefric’s guest chambers at Norrtarr was small, but sufficient for its task. Gray stone walls, lightened with tapestries heavy on the pale yellows and blues.

  The stone floor was covered in carpets woven from some kind of green leaves, strong as linen. A fresh, herbal scent to the air suggested that sweet herbs had been scattered beneath those carpets just yesterday.

  Wide windows with their casements thrown open for a view past the farmland to the conifers of mighty Kerrik Forest in the distance to the east. Resplendent, with the sun only just cresting the tallest of those trees.

  And before that window, a round oak table spread with an assortment of sliced meats and fruits, along with honeyed oat bread, a pair of copper mugs, and a copper ewer that Aefric knew would be filled with water. The traditional Armyrian breakfast drink, to go with the traditional Armyrian breakfast.

  Two matching oak chairs at that table, large enough and strong enough to accommodate even Beornric, a man thick mostly with muscle, who quickly hopped to his feet as Aefric entered the room.

  Ser Beornric Ol’Sandallas. A knight of strong reputation, from an old Armyrian noble family. He’d served directly under King Colm most of his twoscore and more summers, most notably during the Godswalk Wars.

  But it was during the Godswalk Wars that Aefric’s decisive actions at the Battle of Deepwater turned the tide against the armies of borogs marching in service to that evil god, Xazik the Flayer.

  Aefric was called the Hero of Deepwater after that. And many credited him with saving countless lives.

  As soon as Aefric was created Duke of Deepwater by King Colm Stronghand, Ser Beornric entered into Aefric’s service. It didn’t take him long to prove his worth and be named captain of Aefric’s new Knights of the Lake, as well as a trusted adviser.

  Beornric kept his graying black hair cut battlefield short, but since he’d come into Aefric’s service, he’d grown out a bushy mustache that he seemed to enjoy quite a bit.

  All knights had their scars, but Beornric’s — from what Aefric has seen — were mostly on his hands and arms. Those scars on his arms were covered today by a quilted tunic of deep blood red, worn over brown riding leathers.

  As always, his heavy longsword hung at his side.

  “Good morning, your grace,” Ser Beornric said with a smile. “I like the hat. Gives you a roguish look. Rather like Maddox.”

  “Good morning, Beornric,” Aefric said. “I’ll have to hear the stories of this Maddox sometime.”

  Aefric felt pleased with himself that he hadn’t added the “ser” courtesy to Beornric’s greeting. Beornric, along with Aefric’s general, Ser Yrsa, had been working to break him of the habit of giving people their courtesies at all times, and instead doing so only when socially appropriate.

  Tricky habit to break, it seemed.

  Beornric chuckled as Aefric stood the Brightstaff beside his chair, and sat.

  “That will take a good while,” Beornric said. “Maddox’s name is attached to a great many stories. I’ve always favored the tale of how he avoided a war by getting two tarok princesses to fight over him.”

  “I don’t think taroks have princesses,” Aefric said, selecting a slice of roast turkey. “Their governing style tends to be clan-based, with chiefs and subchiefs.”

  “Good story though,” Beornric said with a shrug.

  Aefric frowned as he chewed his first smoky bite of turkey. Cocked his head to one side.

  “How did getting two princesses to fight over him avert a war?” he asked. “Seems to me like the sort of thing that causes wars.”

  Beornric smiled and stroked his mustaches.

  “Would your grace care to hear the story? And delay discussing business?”

  “No,” Aefric said with a sigh. “I’m sure we have important matters to cover before we ride south with Baroness Herewyn. Any word from Yrsa?”

  “A rika this morning from Ajenmoor. No signs of Malimfari ships anywhere near our waters. And no word about the pirate queen Nelazzi being anywhere near our coast. Some stirrings that she’s west of the Risen Sea right now.”

  “Good. I take it the message was too short for word about our defenses, or our progress on rebuilding the coast?”

  Most of Deepwater’s coastal towns had been destroyed during the Godswalk Wars. Aefric hoped to have them at least partially rebuilt before winter.

  “Not from Yrsa, but Baron Osmaer of Haven sends word that Haven’s coastal towns are rebuilt, as are the three southernmost in your ducal lands. Osmaer continues his ride up the coast, seeing to the farmland while workers see to the towns and farms.”

  “Very good,” Aefric said. “And I think his acolytes of the Green Lord… Well, I suppose they’re full clerics themselves now … they’re all three in Goldenfall?”

  The county of Goldenfall, the part of Deepwater most devastated by the Godswalk Wars.

  “Not quite,” Beornric said. “Two are in Goldenfall. The third is finishing her work in Felspark.”

  The barony west of Norra. Hit almost as hard as Goldenfall, though not quite.

  “Good. I don’t want any of my people starving come winter. Bad enough that many still lack their own homes.” Aefric tossed three ripe, delicious slices of orange into his mouth, chewed them and swallowed before asking, “Any word from Kivash?”

  Kivash. Coastal city on the southern bank of the Indecisive River, which formed the border between Armyr and Malimfar.

  The city was once Malimfar’s, but after Aefric stopped the Malimfari invasion at the Battle of Frozen Ridge — which Aefric still didn’t think of as a battle, properly speaking — Armyr marched down the river valley and seized Kivash, in retribution.

  Aefric had been given a castle there, as a sort of thank-you.

  “Karbin remains there at Castle Cairdeas, working on those wards that Larus Hrafntonn left on your new grimoires. Apparently they’re quite intricate. Though he says negotiations are near completion for returning those historical objects to the Hrafntonn family.”

  Aefric hadn’t wanted any negotiations there. The Hrafntonn family had been forced to abandon a sort of family museum when they fled the castle he was later given. Old armor and weapons and artwork of far greater sentimental value than monetary.

  Aefric had wanted to simply return those pieces of Hrafntonn family history as a gesture of goodwill.

  But apparently that wasn’t how things were done between noble families. The castle was now Aefric’s, including everything within its walls.

  Giving the Hrafntonn family back anything Aefric had inherited with the castle would be an insult. However, he had the option to ransom back any possessions he didn’t want.

  Part of the reason for all those layers of wards on the grimoires that Larus Hrafntonn had been forced to abandon. The Hrafntonn family wizard had been trying to force Aefric to ransom them back…

  “Wait,” Aefric said with a frown. “Karbin thinks those wards are intricate? He actually said that? ‘Intricate’ was the word he chose?”

  Karbin was Aefric’s ducal wizard, but also his oldest friend, and one of the finest magic-users he’d ever known.

  It was Karbin who’d first recognized Aefric’s talent for magic, back when Aefric was just a street rat in Sartis. Karbin, who’d begun training Aefric as a wizard.

  And Karbin who’d been the first to realize that Aefric could go only so far as a wizard, for he was in truth the first dweomerblood…

  “Yes,” Beornric said, leaning a little closer across the table and tearing a slice of roast beef in half. “Karbin thinks those wards are intricate. So much so that the Feast of Dereth Sehk might pass before he feels ready to disarm even the first of them.”

  Aefric shook his head as he cut free a chunk of honeyed oat bread, and slathered it with butter.

  “Did I warn Karbin about Hrafntonn’s skill at illusion?”

  “You did, your grace,” Beornric said, wrapping a slice of roast beef around smaller slices of orange, nava, and apple.

  Aefric shook his head. “That’s got to be what’s slowing him down, though. Hrafntonn must’ve wrapped illusions in his wards in clever ways. But how did he have time?”

  “A question I’m sure Karbin will puzzle out,” Beornric said, one wild eyebrow high. “And I’m equally sure that he does not need his duke to return to Kivash to aid him.”

  Aefric chuckled. “Don’t worry. I wasn’t going to abandon my duties and insult my court wizard just to solve a puzzle. No matter how tempting the puzzle.”

  A knock at the door was followed by Ser Wardius poking his head in.

  Tough, wiry Wardius had the dubious distinction of being the most scarred knight Aefric knew. The man had jagged scars on both cheeks, and had lost the tip of his nose and the small finger of his left hand.

  In fact, his hands showed more white scars than tanned skin. Only visible because he had yet to don his gauntlets. Otherwise Wardius, as one of Aefric’s Knights of the Lake, was clad in his full plate armor, with its breastplate etched in an image of Lake Deepwater.

  “Your grace,” Wardius said, “the servants are here for your luggage.”

  Aefric waved for them to come in.

  “We better hurry up and eat,” Beornric said. “It’s a long road to Asarchai.”

  “No it isn’t,” Aefric said. “We’ll be there by mid-afternoon.”

  “Well, it’s a long road on an empty stomach.”

  “Good point,” Aefric said with a laugh. And together, they tucked into their breakfast.

  Even properly fed, Aefric found that the road to Asarchai felt longer than it should have. Especially considering that the wide road was covered in smooth, level slats of seamless pale granite. Very easy for walking or riding.

  But then, Aefric had a lifetime of calibration to overcome, when it came to travel times.

  When Aefric was an adventurer — whether traveling alone or with a small band of companions — he had three speeds: meandering, standard, and urgent.

  While meandering, the road from Norrtarr to Asarchai — which was almost as broad as the Kingsroad, and, thanks to the granite, even better maintained — would have taken all day.

  He would have lingered, enjoying the smell of ripening wheat on the warm summer air. He’d have taken long breaks everywhere the farmers kept roadside stands selling fresh fruits and vegetables. Even napped, in the shade of a copse of oak and beech trees.

  At his standard pace, he would have reached Asarchai before midday. Of course, in those days, he would have left right about dawn.

  But even considering the later hour of his departure that morning, at his old standard pace he’d likely have missed a midday arrival by no more than an hour.

  The distance was short enough to push a horse safely. At least, the quality of horses he rode in those days. When he rode real horses. As opposed to his magaunt — a spell-summoned, phantasmal steed — which covered ground faster than any horse could, safely.

  And when pressing need saw Aefric traveling at an urgent pace, he flew. He could only travel alone that way. He’d never worked out the issues inherent in extending flight to others. But, flying, he could have covered the distance between Norrtarr and Asarchai in perhaps an hour. Certainly not much more.

  But Aefric was a duke now, and it seemed a duke generally traveled at a pace too quick to be called meandering, and certainly too slow to be called urgent.

  No. It was clearly his new “standard” pace. It was just much slower than what Aefric was used to thinking of as his standard pace.

  The difference, he suspected, came down to two things.

  Appearances and numbers.

  When traveling without a pressing need for speed, Aefric was expected to ride slowly enough that the local common folk could pause in their work to come and wave, as they watched their duke pass.

  Not a mandatory, thing, of course. Still, Aefric rarely rode anywhere without a good number of people coming out to cheer him, or yell out wishes for his long life, and the like.

  That bright morning, many of the local farm workers even approached the road to throw flowers and call out blessings on Aefric and Baroness Herewyn.

  Apparently the locals were happy with the progress being made in recovering after the Godswalk Wars.

  The flowers were orange honeysuckle. And they smelled as nice as they looked.

  Honeysuckle. Maev’s scent. An association that made Aefric smile wistfully, at the thought of the beautiful princess. Would that she were here now, and not off in Varondam…

  Distracting himself from that melancholy line of thought, it occurred to Aefric that riding slowly could be construed as a show of power, in places where he might not be so well-loved. After all, he hardly rode alone.

  Which brought him to the numbers factor.

  Only his brief time riding with the royal entourage a few aetts back had meant riding with a larger group of people than he rode with that late summer day.

  Beornric rode at his right hand, of course, and Aefric’s six other Knights of the Lake, resplendent in their full plate armor, rode guard before, behind, and to both sides.

  To Aefric’s immediate left rode her lordship Herewyn Ol’Norette, Baroness of Norra.

  The baroness was a beautiful woman. And not just in her smooth skin — which was fashionably pale — her bright green eyes, or her long, shimmering red hair, which today was bound back into braids for the ride.

  Hers was one of the oldest noble families in Armyr, and it showed. Perhaps five years older than Aefric — which would make her about a decade into her majority — she had the kind of grace and poise that commanded rooms easily.

  Today she wore a silk tunic the color of the midsummer sky, cut to flatter her figure well, over well-worn brown riding leathers.

  At her side, a rapier that looked to be more than mere ornament.

  To Herewyn’s left rode Sighild Ol’Masarkor, heir to a barony in the county of Fyretti, and a beauty in her own right.

  Aefric knew that Sighild was Herewyn’s cousin — and younger by about a decade — but looked more like her younger sister. Same shimmering hair — Sighild’s was longer, and hung past her waist when not bound in braids and ribbons as it was that day — and same bright green eyes.

  Though Sighild’s eyes had small flecks of gold that shined when she smiled. And her skin, a slight dusting of freckles.

  But then, Aefric had spent more time with Sighild. She was one of the contenders to be his duchess.

  Sighild wore a cream-colored silk tunic over her brown riding leathers. And her rapier didn’t look as well-used.

  The four of them formed the nucleus of this massive riding party.

  More than forty knights, perhaps half of whom owed their fealty directly to Aefric, including Ser Beornric and the Knights of the Lake.

  Perhaps a hundred soldiers, two dozen of whom were part of Aefric’s personal guard. The rest were Herewyn’s.