“I’m sure the ladies of his court—”

  “Are you two quite finished?” Aefric asked.

  “Please,” Ser Yrsa said, and now that smile twitched at her lips, “excuse us, your grace. We’d grown quite accustomed to your not hearing us over the last couple of hours.”

  “Made for some very interesting conversation,” Ser Beornric added, hardly able to hide his smile, even under that bushy mustache.

  “Still,” Ser Yrsa said, her eyes practically twinkling with mirth now, “such magic, you performed. It was impressive work, your grace.”

  “Indeed,” Ser Beornric agreed. “Could we fetch your grace some food?”

  Aefric started laughing. And the moment he did, they laughed even harder.

  “Let me guess,” Aefric said, once he controlled his laughter enough for words. “You thought some mirth was in order?”

  “It’s been a very serious day,” Ser Yrsa said. “And the evening doesn’t look likely to get any lighter. It’s never a good idea to go into a battle tense.”

  “And from your posture at the moment,” Ser Beornric said, “you look almost dangerously tense.”

  “Fair enough,” Aefric said, then frowned. “You think I’m going into battle?”

  “You face the unknown in this princess,” Ser Yrsa said. “And politics can be a battle as fierce as any fought in the fields of this world.”

  Aefric wasn’t sure he agreed with that point, but his knight-advisers were right that he did need to relax.

  He flared his nostrils, going for a deep breath…

  …and failing.

  Apparently the muscles through his torso were so tense that he couldn’t take in half the air he was used to, even when trying.

  He closed his eyes. Rolled his shoulders and neck. Focused on starting his breath as low down in his belly as he could imagine.

  He tried to suck in a deep breath.

  Twitching cramps raced around from his collarbone to his hips.

  Aefric coughed out that failed breath. Rolled his shoulders and neck again. Rolled his hips next. Tracked his eyes up into the night sky, where the stars seemed almost to dance, and the moon was about halfway toward full.

  He tried for that deep breath once more. Slowly.

  Finally, he managed to fill his lungs and diaphragm with air.

  He held that breath for several heartbeats, against muscles that wanted to force it back out and grab more air quickly.

  He exhaled just as slowly and smoothly as he could.

  He made himself draw six more deep breaths that way. Inhaling slowly, filling his lungs and diaphragm, then holding that breath, until he slowly let it out once more.

  “Better?” Ser Yrsa asked.

  Aefric nodded.

  “Good, because we’re coming into port.”

  Aefric shook himself. They were indeed.

  The city of Water’s End was a busy place even at night. The streets lit up not by the canted yellow light of oil lamps, but brighter white light of spells attached to poles by Aefric’s predecessors.

  The docks bustled with ships being loaded in preparation for leaving in the morning. The streets were alive with people, both those seeking entertainment at the end of their work day, and those whose work began with the setting sun.

  Even as the Duke’s Hand sailed the safe route through the reef, Aefric could hear the distant strains of music and shouts of laughter.

  He imagined he could smell all sorts of wonders cooking and baking, but that might have been the fantasy of his empty, rumbling stomach.

  He distracted himself from such thoughts by gazing at the castle itself, which was lit up by more than just the windows, and patrols atop the walls, and parapets.

  The walls themselves sparkled by night, as though they were part of the lake, reflecting the stars.

  A beautiful sight. And he could hear cries of wonder from the refugees aboard the Swift Wave, which followed the Duke’s Hand through the reef ahead of the five ships carrying soldiers.

  Kentigern was already waiting on the duke’s pier, oil lamp in hand and surrounded by a handful of pages.

  Aefric was tempted to ask how his seneschal knew to be there, waiting, for surely the man had not been standing there all evening.

  Likely there was a perfectly reasonable explanation for Kentigern’s seeming prescience about his duke’s movements. Perhaps a signal system from the ships to the docks.

  Aefric wouldn’t ask, though. He liked the mystery of it.

  The ship was barely in dock, and the gangplank lowered, before Kentigern started in.

  “Your grace,” he said. “Dinner has already been served, but—”

  “The ship behind me is the Swift Wave,” Aefric said, coming down the gangplank. “It’s carrying refugees, cargo, and Ser Micham. He already has a letter for you, detailing these things and what I want done with them.”

  Aefric, now on the smoothed coral of the dock, with his knights and guards falling in around him, raised his hand to stop Kentigern’s question.

  “Add to those orders,” Aefric said, “that I want those refugees fed at once, and lodged in the castle tonight. We’ll meet about them in the morning.”

  “Yes, your grace,” Kentigern said, and opened his mouth to say more. Before he could, Aefric continued.

  “There’s also an itemized manifest of cargo recovered from the smugglers I mentioned previously.” He shook his head. “I’ve been told we’d never be able to find its proper owners. Nevertheless, I want you to go through the art objects. Look for anything that might be special or irreplaceable or otherwise significant, and set it aside. Most of it, though, is either seed or grain of some variety, and that needs to be sent where it will do the most good. Much of it to Goldenfall, I imagine.”

  Kentigern bowed acknowledgment, frowning a frown that Aefric knew well. It was the frown that said Kentigern had something he needed to say, but that he knew he’d have to wait until Aefric was finished before he could talk.

  “Now,” Aefric said, “I’ve also brought back a prisoner. Gwawl. Apparently he’s a crony of that pirate queen Nelazzi.”

  Kentigern’s eyes rounded wide. Nelazzi’s raids on and around Deepwater’s coastline had caused serious problems for Duchess Arinda a few years back.

  “He’s also a wizard, so he’ll need an appropriate cell. I assume we have one?”

  “We have several, your grace,” Kentigern said, gazing back toward the incoming ships. “First installed … five generations ago, and kept ready at the insistence of the Soulfists.”

  “And they were right to do so.” Aefric shook his head. “There’s more to talk about, about Ajenmoor and a few other things, but they’ll keep until morning.”

  “Did your grace accomplish all he needed to in Ajenmoor?” Kentigern asked, showing surprising patience.

  Perhaps his news wasn’t all that dire?

  “Not remotely,” Aefric said, arching an eyebrow. “There are still answers I need, but I assumed it would be better if I returned tonight, given the presence of a certain princess?”

  “Two princesses, your grace,” Kentigern said, apparently caught between amusement and exasperation. “Princess Xenia of Caiperas arrived this afternoon.”

  Aefric walked quickly along the duke’s pier toward the Castle at Water’s End, with Kentigern to his right, and Ser Beornric to his left. The four of them trailed a cloud of pages, and were surrounded by the knights and soldiers of his personal guard.

  Ser Yrsa followed behind, organizing the debarkation of ships full of soldiers and refugees, and the offloading of the recovered cargo.

  Ser Yrsa had been right. Aefric’s night didn’t look to be any shorter or easier than his day had been.

  “Caiperas…” Aefric said, thinking. He’d never been there. Not as Aefric. But as Keifer he’d read of it in Torn Kingdoms sourcebooks. He knew he had. But in the moment he couldn’t recall anything important about anyplace called Caiperas.

  Well, he could remember that it was the setting of adventure module, T2: The Keep on Windy Hill, but that was hardly politically relevant.

  “I don’t recall it,” he said. “Remind me.”

  “Caiperas is the kingdom east of Malimfar,” Kentigern said quickly, — possibly before Ser Beornric could — “and south of Rethneryl. Its border touches Armyr only slightly, among the royal lands near Armityr.”

  “We’ve long had peace with Caiperas,” Ser Beornric said. “Though they’re old enemies of Malimfar. Their border disputes go back centuries. Maybe further.”

  “Caiperas has been making overtures to King Colm,” Kentigern continued, “ever since the Battle of Frozen Ridge. Angling for a formal alliance.”

  “Great,” Aefric said. “So this Princess Xenia is here to what … help solidify that alliance?”

  “The oldest way possible,” Kentigern said, nodding. “Or at least, that’s my guess. She arrived with a full entourage, as though expecting to stay a while.”

  “Why here? Why with me? Surely Prince Killian would be a more fitting pursuit for her.”

  “In that they are both royalty and of old families, yes,” Ser Beornric said. “But Armyr, even after the wars, is still a rich, powerful kingdom. While Caiperas…”

  “Is a darling place,” Kentigern said, “by all accounts. But it’s … small, your grace. And not especially wealthy, or well-located, strategically.”

  “If Queen Eppida gives the king another son,” Ser Beornric said, “Caiperas might be able to arrange a marriage to him. But to the crown prince?”

  Both Ser Beornric and Kentigern shook their heads.

  “Your grace, on the other hand,” Kentigern said, “holds the largest duchy in Armyr, and has significant power of his own.”

  “What he’s saying, if he ever gets around to it,” Ser Beornric said, giving Kentigern an amused look, “is that in the eyes of many, you’re practically a prince. Especially in terms of marriage eligibility.”

  Practically a prince…

  Would that make Aefric a fit match for Maev after all?

  Dangerous line of thought. By now, Maev might already be promised to Varondam’s King Dalius.

  Aefric shook away the thought, and asked a different question.

  “How did that Malimfar princess, Astrid, react to Princess Xenia’s arrival?”

  “Her highness welcomed her highness like a sister, of course,” Kentigern said, as though the answer should’ve been obvious. “Mind you, I don’t doubt that privately she’s furious. Especially since she’d gotten here first, but has yet to meet your grace. But she’ll never let any of that show in public. She’s royalty.”

  “Not necessarily the best indicator of self-control,” Ser Beornric said. “I’ve personally witnessed royal anger in public settings on more than one occasion.”

  “Of course,” Kentigern said, as though speaking to someone slow. “But always when there’s a point to be made. It would have served Princess Astrid nothing to express her anger then. She’ll show it when she’ll gain something by it.”

  “Well,” Aefric said with a sigh. “I have yet to eat any dinner. So, I guess I should invite both princesses to join me?”

  “That will insult Princess Astrid,” Kentigern said. “After all, she arrived first. No doubt she expects to be received by you first, and to have her say before Princess Xenia gets her turn.”

  “So I should invite Astrid to join me for dinner, and Xenia to join me for breakfast?”

  “Princess Astrid and Princess Xenia, your grace,” Kentigern said. “I know we’re only speaking among ourselves, but your grace must not be overheard taking familiarities he has not been permitted.”

  “Thank you,” Aefric said. “I’ll watch that.”

  “Your plan, however, will insult Princess Xenia,” Kentigern said, patiently. “After all, she’s a princess, and will expect to be received properly at the first opportunity.”

  Aefric shook his head. “But she already knows another princess is waiting, and arrived first.”

  “And your grace is quite droll to suggest that will matter,” Kentigern said, quirking a half-smile.

  “Worse,” Ser Beornric said. “Because Malimfar and Caiperas are traditional enemies, if you do anything that either can construe as showing favor one way or the other, they will take that decision as a political statement.”

  “So whatever I do, I’m insulting somebody,” Aefric said, frustrated.

  “Well, to be frank your grace,” Kentigern said. “The insults began this afternoon, when Princess Astrid’s people learned that you had docked here briefly, but did not receive her before setting sail again.”

  “And did you inform her of the reasons?”

  “The reasons your grace gave me made little difference to Princess Astrid, I’m afraid,” Kentigern said with an expressive grimace. “I believe the reference to lives hanging in the balance was taken as an excuse, not a reason.”

  Aefric stopped walking, forcing the whole procession to stop with him.

  “All right,” Aefric said. “This is what we’ll do. I’m going to fly up to my rooms, to clean up and change. After all, I have royalty to greet.”

  “Your grace,” Kentigern started, but stilled when Aefric raised a hand.

  “Now, I want the refugees and cargo — and the prisoner — brought in as we discussed. But I want the soldiers of my personal guard acting as escort. And, Kentigern, I want you choosing a route that will make sure they’re seen, but not as though we’re trying to make them seen.”

  “Ah,” Kentigern said, smiling. “I know just the route, your grace. I can ensure that both princesses hear about it from their own people.”

  “Good,” Aefric said. “You are, of course, to personally oversee this, by my order. Take as much time as you need to, to make sure that word gets back to both princesses before you go to them. Then tell them I’m back, and have rushed to make up for my inexcusable tardiness in meeting them.”

  “May I use those words, your grace?” Kentigern said, smiling wider.

  “You can tell them they’re my words, if you think it will help.”

  “It’s even true,” Ser Beornric said with a chuckle.

  “Please also tell the princesses that the day has kept me so busy that I’ve barely eaten.”

  “Also true,” Ser Beornric said with a sigh. “Though you could have eaten in Ajenmoor.”

  “Not while we had so much going on,” Aefric said. “No, not even when matters were slow.”

  Aefric turned back to Kentigern.

  “Tell them then that I require a late supper, and that I wish to invite them both to join me in my private dining room, so that we may all meet in mutual friendship, and enjoy an evening’s company before politics rears its ugly head.”

  “Your grace,” Kentigern said, grimacing. “That’s hardly—”

  “No,” Ser Beornric said, smiling. “It’s clever. Think who’s saying it, and what they know about him.”

  “Exactly,” Aefric said with a smile. “I’ve been an adventurer most of my life, and a duke for a little more than a season. Surely they won’t be expecting me to be politically adroit enough to see the insults they might take at being greeted together.”

  “Perhaps,” Kentigern said, tugging at his heavy, dark brown beard. “They might even be willing to accept your grace’s … unorthodox idea for the evening. If I make sure to seem frustrated by the phrasing.”

  “Which you are,” Aefric said, smiling and clapping Kentigern on the shoulder. “Come now, Kentigern. Surely I’ve given you a wealth of frustration to draw on, over the past season.”

  Kentigern arched an eyebrow. “I’m sure I don’t know what your grace means.”

  Aefric started laughing, and Kentigern’s eyes sparkled with mirth.

  “Well,” he admitted, smiling, “perhaps a little.” He nodded. “This might work, your grace.”

  “It’s worth a shot, at least,” Aefric said. “Anything else before I fly?”

  “A thousand things, your grace,” Kentigern said. “But none of them more important than two princesses.”

  “Then here we go,” Aefric said, and took to the air.

  The summer night was warm, but felt much cooler as Aefric soared through it on his way to his ducal apartments.

  His personal apartments in the Castle at Water’s End stretched across three floors, high up in the main keep. The lowest section included his personal dining room and sitting room, a solarium, a music room, an art gallery, a war room, and a couple of other rooms besides.

  All the areas that the “public” might have access to were on that bottom floor of his apartment. The public part was only theoretical, of course. Although he was considered available when in one of the rooms on that floor, the truth was that even most of those who lived and worked in the castle would never set foot in one of those rooms.

  The second level up included the duke’s bedroom, a secondary, more private sitting room, his closets, his personal library, his bath room, garderobe, and similar. He also had another solarium on this floor, as well as a meditation chamber.

  The third level included his study, magical library, and laboratories for magic and alchemy.

  And the right word was enough to light most of these rooms with soft, apparently sourceless white light, generated by the spells of Aefric’s predecessors.

  He landed on the small balcony of the second floor, outside the glass doors and between the intricately carved greenwood furniture.

  The magic lock on the door opened at his touch, and he entered the secondary sitting room.

  Dajen, his chief evening valet, waited, standing tall and straight in livery of the Deepwater colors. As though he both knew Aefric was arriving, and how he would arrive.

  Impressive.

  But then, Dajen had to have been approaching his sixtieth summer — though the only signs of his age were in the halo of snow white hair around his bald head, and the few wrinkles gracing his face — and had served the dukes and duchesses of Deepwater his whole life.

  Aefric was hardly the first Duke of Deepwater to arrive at his rooms by landing on the balcony.