The poetry could wait.

  On a small, calinwood table on the opposite side of the door sat a chased silver ewer of water, and a matching goblet.

  Aefric filled the goblet with water, collected the three letters from his desk — ignored the reports that lay beside them — and lounged on his couch to read. Maev’s letter first, then Byrhta’s, then Vercy’s.

  Maev’s had been sealed with forest green wax, and her personal device: a bow (usually golden) with arrow nocked.

  Aefric broke the seal and unfolded the letter...

  My dearest Aefric,

  I hope you are well, and that the trip to the Dragonscar you wrote of planning was both successful and interesting. Might you have brought me back a piece of the dragon’s skeleton?

  A claw would be appropriate, I should think. Likely large enough to make a good bow. Strictly as a fancy, of course. Something to hang on a wall. For I doubt I should ever be strong enough to bend a bow made from a dragon’s claw.

  Though I would, of course, try.

  I hope you brought yourself back a bit of that skeleton, as well. Perhaps a bit of spine, that could be sliced into a cross section and fitted with jewels as a proper coronet for a duke such as yourself.

  And knowing you, you’d find a way to call some magic out of the bones, to make it both a weapon and an ornamentation.

  I can just picture you wearing it. Shocking and impressing the whole of your court. Why, I bet all the young noblewomen would swoon at the sight of you.

  The only swooning I might do down here in Varondam would be from the heat. Oh, but the summers are devilishly hot down here, Aefric. Their tailors had to outfit me with a whole new wardrobe.

  The bright colors are … pleasant enough, I suppose.

  But the fabrics, Aefric. So thin! I fear that if I exert myself, my gown will come apart and leave me naked before the whole of the court.

  Couldn’t you just picture that happening to me?

  Fortunately, they’ve also provided me hunting garb of appropriate thickness and strength. Likely because I threatened to go kill a stag and make my own.

  I may anyway. I know you favor the way I look in my buckskin clothes.

  Negotiations towards this alliance that Father wants are going well. Well enough that I might even be able to escape without a promise of marriage to their King Dalius.

  It helps, I think, that I’m not what King Dalius had hoped for.

  Mind you, he would never say any such thing. And he’s the sort who believes that alliances are best solidified through marriage and children.

  So that is working against me.

  Still. From little things I’ve noticed here and there, I suspect that he’s as disappointed in the fact of me as he was excited about the idea of me.

  I believe he expected me to be some demure, retiring princess, offering up shy smiles and focusing on looking pretty. Never saying what was really on my mind, except behind closed doors.

  You’re laughing at that description of me. Admit it. Can you even picture me behaving that way? I certainly can’t.

  I know Father wanted me to be “on my best behavior” while I’m down here. But I won’t lie about who I am. And if Father believes otherwise, then he’s been turning a blind eye to the truths of his daughter.

  I know he’ll be disappointed that I haven’t been charmed by King Dalius. But I cannot help that. Charm is not enough for me.

  If I must marry King Dalius, then I will do so as my duty to Father and Armyr.

  But it would not be for love, nor the hope that love would grow with time.

  And if I can escape this wedding, I will.

  Honestly, Aefric. King Dalius claims to love his hunting, but the man hunts with a crossbow.

  A crossbow!

  Certainly he’s accurate enough, I suppose, but he takes forever to aim. And between the smells of the oil and the cacophony of that loading lever, he can only find game if others ride ahead and flush it out for him.

  Plus, he moves through the forest with all the silent glory of an armored knight falling down a flight of stairs.

  What’s more, I think he’s jealous of me, if you can believe that. I’ve told him more than once that I am a fully trained forester. And that I was a lead scout for Father during the Godswalk Wars.

  I’ve probably shot more arrows this year alone than he has bolts his entire life.

  Still. He considers himself a great hunter. And so it seems to prick his fragile ego that during the time he struggles to bring down a single deer, I bring down two or three, depending on my mood.

  And when needed, I finish them myself with a proper dagger slice across the right part of the throat. Not with the stab of a rapier through the heart, damaging the pelt.

  The man is good with his rapier. I’ll give him that. He may have inherited the surname Swiftblade, but he more than lives up to it. Still…

  Oh, dear. I’ve started ranting to you again. I am sorry, dearest Aefric. I know I said I would try to refrain from that. And I certainly would prefer to write to you of happier things.

  Worse, a page has just come in. I am summoned to court for the presentation of … some noble or other. King Dalius certainly keeps a large court.

  And so, alas, I must go and put on some bit of thin frippery that passes for a gown down here. Even though the man I would most wish to see me wear such a thing is hundreds of miles from me.

  No doubt being courted and seduced by countless noblewomen. Chief among them Byrhta Ol’Caran.

  I hope they have not driven me from your heart and your thoughts entirely, in my absence. And I hope that Father has not yet begun pressuring you to wed, as he regrets not pressuring Arinda.

  That really would be most unfair of him.

  They call me again. I really must go.

  Sylkanis sends her greetings. I think she misses you as much as I do.

  Yours most truly,

  Maev

  Maev’s letter smelled of honeysuckle, though too faintly to have shared its aroma with the entire room.

  And yet, Aefric was sure now that he could smell honeysuckle in the room. Just faintly, but enough that it had to be deliberate.

  Interesting. Had Maev commissioned one of his servants to scent the air of his study when he received her letter?

  He wouldn’t put it past her. And she already seemed to know him well enough to guess that his alone time in the ducal study would be sacrosanct.

  If she did arrange that hint of honeysuckle to the air, it was a clever bit of subtlety from Maev, which suited her. If asked, she’d probably refer to it as “leading her quarry,” or by some other hunting term.

  Was it too much to hope that she’d hold on to a few of those dresses when she left Varondam? Aefric found he was quite curious to see her in such a “thin bit of frippery.”

  Though she would always look more herself in buckskins made by her own hand than any court dress. The way he’d first seen her. Long black hair streaming behind her as she rode up the road to Behal Castle that day this spring.

  She wore her buckskins that day. Possibly to test the reactions of the new duke she’d heard so much about. And it was in buckskins he’d always picture her.

  He found himself both happy and sad that she seemed ill-suited for King Dalius. Happy, selfishly, because he considered himself a much better match for her.

  Assuming King Colm would even consider letting them marry.

  Aefric felt sad, though, because she might have to marry King Dalius. And she should have a happy life, with a husband she could at least grow to love.

  Aefric lay back on the couch in his study, sipping gently from his goblet of water, and read the letter two more times. He was tempted to write back now, but decided to wait. He really ought to read the other two letters tonight, then write back to all three tomorrow.

  He set aside Maev’s letter and picked up Byrhta’s.

  It was sealed with blue wax, as most correspondence from Riverbreak was, but the sigil was new.

  Previously, Byrhta had had no personal sigil, any more than she had a personal title. She was the daughter of the Count of Goldenfall, but it was her elder brother Taeric who was due to inherit.

  And yet, her letter had been sealed with blue wax, and impressed with the image of a harp.

  An interesting choice. The harp was an instrument traditionally associated with the eldrani, whose blood she shared.

  A fitting device for her.

  The sigil, and the scent of her spicy and exotic perfume, left no doubt that this letter was personal, not business.

  Aefric broke the seal and began to read.

  My sweet Aefric,

  It feels as though the ages have shifted since last I saw you, though it has scarce been three aetts.

  Perhaps I was spoiled for a short time this spring, by such steady access to your presence and your bed. If so, let me be so spoiled again sometime soon.

  I miss you terribly.

  The noblemen here in Riverbreak all seem to think that the title of ler should impress me. As though, merely because I do not stand to inherit my father’s county, I should be excited to have petty nobles pay court to me.

  As though the prospect of marriage with such as them should thrill me. No matter their age, or meager holdings.

  They do not seem to realize that my father and my brother both would sooner make me a ler in my own right, than see me married to the likes of them.

  Worse, I suspect that some of them hope to dazzle me with gifts and promises so that I won’t realize they’re actually trying to win power and influence over their baroness regent.

  Fools.

  Honestly. Because I have a portion of my grandmother’s beauty, they seem to think I must be as slow-witted as a brained cow.

  Of course, that assumption does have its advantages. I’ve been able to accomplish a good deal for Riverbreak, by manipulating those fools into doing what was better for the barony than for their own pockets.

  We may double our grain production alone by next year. And…

  Forgive me.

  I began this letter as your lover, not your vassal, and it’s not right for me to retreat into thoughts of business.

  It’s only that I’m so excited to be doing this work, Aefric. This is the first real chance anyone has given me to do more than play politics and look pretty.

  Don’t get me wrong. My father has always known that I am more than just ornamentation. And during my fosterage with Duchess Arinda, she saw to my education properly, and prepared me in case something happened to Taeric.

  Arinda taught me so much. I will always be grateful to her.

  But in the last few years, there has been little to truly engage my mind, and push me to do more than the simple tasks any courtier might do.

  You are the first to give me such a chance. And it means so much to me that you did so not to impress me, nor to win any favor from me, but only because you believe in me. That I could do this job, and do it well.

  You looked beyond the beauty that dazzles so many others, and saw the woman underneath.

  I swear I shall prove that you made a wise choice, and that you are right to have confidence in me.

  And as for thanking you for the opportunity, well, I promise to continue to do so. Every chance I get.

  And I plan to get quite creative in how I go about expressing my gratitude.

  I hope to make it to Water’s End for a visit before the end of summer. That will depend on how firm a grip I get on the court here, in the interim, and whether or not Vercy will insist on coming along.

  She will make a fine baroness one day. She has a good head on her shoulders, and I am training her as Arinda trained me.

  She needs seasoning, though. Confidence. Too many of her lers and knights have known her since she was a child. And though she demonstrates at times that she can stand up to them, at other times the habit of yielding to her elders is too strong in her.

  I blame her parents for that. Baron Karmody liked his women submissive, and Baroness Montess played into that. Pushed the idea that a noblewoman should be subtle and yielding in court, and expressive and strong only in private.

  That might work for an untitled noblewoman, but it’s a terrible thing in a baroness.

  Fortunately, I have no trouble giving her a strong lead to follow. And you yourself have given me the opportunity to show her.

  Vercy is still smitten with you. She speaks of you often, and in such hopeful terms that I think she truly does aspire to marry you one day.

  She told me how Arinda “promised” to wed her elder brother Baston.

  The poor dear. It sounds as though her whole family believed that was a true promise. I could have told them that Arinda made such “promises” only on whims, and never meant them to be taken seriously. They were as fleeting as compliments.

  I cannot tell her that now, of course. Not after the shame her brother brought on her house. Though at least she accepts that you cannot be held to Arinda’s “promise.”

  Though I daresay she still plans to prove herself a fit wife for you. An interesting notion.

  But now, alas, I must go. Court is to begin soon, and I wish this letter to reach you by evening.

  Give my best to Princess Maev, for I’ve no doubt she writes you as often as I do. She and I still need to have that talk she spoke of. Assuming she ever returns from Varondam.

  Do write me back soon, Aefric. I know your duties keep you busy, but I want to hear all about the Dragonscar, and whatever other adventures you’ve found yourself embroiled in. I look forward to your letters almost as much as I do to seeing you in person.

  And now I must say farewell, sweet Aefric. I hope that sometimes as you fall asleep, you think of me. As I think of you.

  Yours,

  Byrhta

  P.S. I hope you like the sigil I’ve chosen. I don’t believe you’ve ever heard me play the harp, but I’ll correct that the next time I see you.

  And you do know when I most love to sing to you.

  Aefric sighed, contentedly, as lay back for a moment on his overstuffed couch, sipping his water and staring at the ceiling of his study.

  Maev and Byrhta. Two such very different women. And yet, both held such deep appeal to him.

  Interesting that Byrhta should mention the notion of Vercy proving herself a fit bride for Aefric. Vercy had first mentioned that idea back in the spring, just after the justiciar pronounced judgment on Ser Grud, Baston and her parents, for their roles on Malimfar’s espionage.

  It was expected, of course, that Aefric would marry a peer. A duchess, a rich enough countess perhaps, or even a princess. Or at least a highly placed family member of a peer.

  The idea that he would marry a baroness, much less a baroness who was his own vassal, well, that was not an idea he should entertain. Everyone had said so.

  But when Vercy put the idea forward, how was he expected to look into her eyes and deny her the possibility?

  Of course, in not denying her that possibility, he had also opened the door for Byrhta to aspire to marry him as well.

  Byrhta, who did not have even a title of her own, much less a dowry worthy of a duke. Until that moment, she’d likely been happy enough to be Aefric’s friend and lover. Perhaps get a position at his court. The gods knew she was smart enough to do many jobs well.

  But by bringing it up again in this letter, Byrhta was proving what Ser Grey — Aefric’s castellan at Behal — had said this spring.

  If Vercy had the chance to “prove” herself a fit bride, then so did Byrhta.

  Hardly a horrible fate. Byrhta’s beauty was famed across half of Qorunn, and she was intelligent, witty…

  She wasn’t Maev.

  But then again, Maev wasn’t Byrhta.

  Marrying one would always mean losing the other. Which was the saddest part about having to choose.

  Though that was a future problem. He certainly didn’t have to choose tonight.

  No. Tonight he could re-read Byrhta’s letter another time or two for pleasure. To contemplate hearing her play the harp and sing. She would be naked, of course. She most loved to sing to Aefric when they were both naked, after lovemaking.

  He even allowed himself to wonder just what she had in mind, when it came to expressing her gratitude.

  Very pleasant things to think about. And he looked forward to writing back to her as well.

  But for now, tonight, there was the letter from Vercy.

  Vercy’s letter was perfumed as well. Water lilies, if Aefric guessed the scent correctly. She had no personal sigil yet, so she’d impressed the blue wax with the Riverbreak device: an otter, facing to the dexter.

  Aefric broke the seal and began to read.

  Your Grace,

  Do you know what I heard today? Some of my lers feel affronted that you chose Byrhta to be my baroness regent, instead of one of them. Apparently, some of them have taken to grumbling together about it, over wine.

  The gall. To believe they know better than their duke.

  Well, in case any of them dare raise such concerns to your grace, allow me to set your mind at ease.

  Byrhta has been a wonderful choice as regent.

  I would swear that I have learned more about what it means to be a noble and how to handle courtiers in a single season with her than I ever learned from my mother.

  To be fair, though, Mother never expected me to inherit the title. She was preparing me to marry a ruler, not become one myself.

  But Byrhta has been teaching me how to hear beyond what is spoken, and how to read beyond what it written, to ferret out the meaning of what lies beneath.

  She’s so brilliant, poised and beautiful. I hope to be like her one day.

  Well, more than that. For wonderful as the poor dear is, I shall be a baroness, and she, alas, shall have no title of her own.

  I do not suppose that your grace could find a title for her? Perhaps the king could be persuaded to grant your grace permission to create her a baroness?