“No,” Aefric said firmly. “I don’t care for it myself, but I believe I can appreciate the strategy behind it.”

  Finally, they turned a corner and Castle Stormsent sat in the road before them.

  Aefric’s jaw dropped. He’d had no idea they’d gotten so close. The narrow street, the tightly packed buildings. It had all served as camouflage for the castle.

  At least he wasn’t alone in his surprise. He also heard gasps from some of his knights.

  “All right,” Ser Beornric said after a moment, nodding. “I’ll grant them that one.”

  The castle was of gray and brown stone, with four rounded towers at the corners, and sat behind a wall of matching stone, some fifty feet high.

  And the wall sat behind a moat, some thirty feet wide, and filled with … something that was probably fish. Certainly Aefric could see movement. But as the moat didn’t connect to any rivers that he could see, much less the lake, he couldn’t imagine fish would thrive in it.

  “Baron Leofstan returns,” one of the baron’s knights called to the guards on the wall. “And he brings with him Ser Aefric Brightstaff, Duke of Deepwater. Lower the drawbridge.”

  The drawbridge chain was well-oiled, at least. It wasn’t soundless as the drawbridge came down, but the creaking was certainly quieter than the sounds of the city around them.

  Not many buildings inside the wall here. Just stables, and two smiths. A weaponsmith and armorsmith, if Aefric wasn’t mistaken. Other than that, the courtyard was set with quintains, for jousting practice.

  “Think he’s planning a tournament?” Aefric asked Ser Beornric.

  “Could be. Could also be that all those knights were carrying lances because we caught them at practice.”

  “I doubt we’re that lucky,” Aefric said.

  “Unfortunately, so do I,” Ser Beornric replied.

  The baron led them to the stables then, and as he dismounted and gave his reins to a groom, he turned to Aefric and said, “I trust your grace will allow his steeds into the care of our grooms?”

  “Is there a reason I shouldn’t?” Aefric asked, dismounting.

  “Of course not,” Baron Leofstan said, his tone on the knife’s edge of mocking. “But clearly your grace does not trust easily, and I do not know that he has time for our avener and his grooms to prove themselves to your grace’s satisfaction.”

  Aefric turned a level look on Baron Leofstan, who met it eagerly.

  “Is it the policy of Duke Wylyn to see to it that his guests are insulted at every opportunity?”

  “Is it the policy of your grace to insult those who come to offer him hospitality?”

  At least one of Aefric’s knights hissed in a breath at that one.

  “What hospitality?” Aefric asked. “I was offered only challenges and demands. I have seen nothing like hospitality since I left Alimar’s Launch, where it seems that a common harbormaster understands his place and his duties better than your lordship.”

  Baron Leofstan’s hand went to the hilt of his rapier.

  Aefric allowed the Brightstaff’s diamond to glow a warning.

  “Your grace offers insults freely,” Baron Leofstan said in what he doubtless thought was a dangerous tone. “Perhaps he would rather offer a challenge instead?”

  Aefric let loose a scathing laugh.

  “Challenge? An insolent nothing like you? Enough of your braying, sirrah. Send word of my arrival to your master before I simply put you in your place.”

  Baron Leofstan glared at Aefric. Fingers clenching and unclenching, as though desperate to pull that rapier.

  That one knight, again, leaned in and whispered something to Baron Leofstan.

  Baron Leofstan continued his glare.

  Aefric addressed the baron’s knights now.

  “Unless one of you wants to explain to your duke why he has a new statue shaped like the Baron of Mountain Home, I strongly suggest you get hold of this fool.”

  Two of the knights grabbed Baron Leofstan by the arms and started hauling him towards the castle. Seventeen of the others covered their exit, but looked frustrated and upset about the whole encounter.

  Meanwhile, that one knight stepped forward and bowed to Aefric.

  “Your grace,” he said. “May I escort you and your knights to the presence of his grace, the Duke of Silverlake?”

  “Nothing would please me more,” Aefric said, allowing the Brightstaff to dim again.

  Finally, it seemed, he was getting somewhere.

  Aefric did his best to get a read on the castle as he was escorted in, but he didn’t get to see much.

  They were barely in past the portcullises and murder holes when he was led down a stone side passage, past a handful of doors and an open stairway downward, and into a decent library.

  Most of his knights were required to wait in the hall, but Aefric was assured that the door was not thick, and if they were given cause, they could break it down quickly enough.

  Aefric had an urge to laugh at the reassurance, but the poor knight was probably just trying to cover for the … excesses of the baron.

  Ser Beornric was allowed to join Aefric in the library, as an adviser, and even allowed to keep his sword.

  The library was the first room Aefric has seen with plastered walls — painted a golden brown, and carpets of woven rushes. Fresh carpets, from the sweet smell.

  The windows were little more than air slits that expanded into rectangles, and didn’t do a lot for letting in light. Fortunately, there was a chandelier, with two dozen thick, beeswax pillar candles giving the room a comfortable glow.

  A desk sat along the center of one wall, with a carved wooden chair behind it. Both looked like black oak. A hearth along the opposite wall was cold at the moment, for the room was comfortable enough without fire.

  Three comfortable-looking couches, upholstered in a deep maroon, were grouped around it.

  As for books, the library had six bookcases that came up to Aefric’s waist. Their shelves filled with what looked to be histories and treatises on military theory.

  A cabinet in the corner held bottles of wine and liquors of darker colors, and a small variety of glasses.

  And Aefric knew all of this, because he and Ser Beornric were in that room for some time. Waiting.

  Ser Beornric finally took his seat on a couch, but Aefric continued pacing as he waited. Tapping the butt of the Brightstaff on the carpeting with every step.

  At long last, the door opened, and a page announced, “His grace, Wylyn Stormsent, Duke of Silverlake.”

  “Finally,” Aefric muttered, but smiled as he turned towards the door, to see Dyke Wylyn coming in at last.

  Duke Wylyn was a short man, with his chestnut brown hair kept battlefield short, and his brown beard split on both cheeks by scars.

  But though he’d dyed the gray away from his hair and beard, the lines on his face and neck told of his advanced age. Still. the duke looked fit enough to take the field again today, if he had cause.

  Duke Wylyn still wore a brace of wicked-looking magic daggers at his belt. Likely the same pair he’d worn in his adventuring days, much as Aefric still carried the Brightstaff.

  He half-looked as though he should have been wearing armor, rather than a deep red silk shirt over black leather breeches and hard leather boots. Like Baron Leofstan, Duke Wylyn wore a protective charm. A bracer on his left arm, worn under the shirt.

  Similar enchantment, though there was a difference between them that Aefric would need more time to place.

  But Duke Wylyn wasn’t wearing his coronet. And he was smiling as his page introduced Aefric.

  “Your grace,” Aefric said, offering his hand to shake, as was proper among nobles of equal rank.

  “No, please,” Duke Wylyn said, holding up his hands as though warding off a blow. “You and I, we weren’t swaddled in silk with rafts of servants ready to wipe out asses, like most of the lot out there.” He jerked his thumb to indicate his court. “We’re self-made, you and I. So let us be Aefric and Wylyn unless time and bad decisions make us enemies, eh?”

  Aefric laughed. “Sounds right to me, Wylyn.”

  “Excellent,” Wylyn said, shaking Aefric’s hand then, before dismissing the page and turning to see about the knight on his couch. “Ser Beornric Ol’Sandallas, isn’t it? You used to fight for his majesty.”

  “That’s right, your grace,” Ser Beornric said. “But when his grace here was created Duke of Deepwater, I and two dozen soldiers were presented to him as an honor guard.”

  “And quite an honor it is,” Wylyn said, turning to Aefric. “You know, this man personally saved the life of Prince Killian during the wars? I saw it with my own two eyes.”

  “I didn’t,” Aefric said, turning raised eyebrows on his knight.

  “Twas smaller in the doing than the telling makes it seem,” Ser Beornric said, humbly. “But I shall tell the story sometime, if your grace wishes.”

  “Believe it,” Aefric said, while Wylyn crossed the room to the liquor cabinet.

  “I should feed you first, I’m sure,” Wylyn said, pouring measures of dark amber liquid into three glasses. “But I was raised to believe you greeted your guests with a toast, not a cheese.”

  He handed glasses to Aefric and Ser Beornric.

  “To the peace and prosperity of both our duchies,” Wylyn said, and all three drank.

  It was strong, that liquor. And harsh enough to sting Aefric’s mouth and burn a bit on the way down. But for all that, it had a rich, full taste, with hints of almond that made him raise an eyebrow at his host.

  “I know, right?” Wylyn said, chuckling. “Back in my adventuring days, I carried three different poisons that had almond in their taste. When I discovered that this ishka was brewed in Mountain Home, I made it a policy to keep a barrel or three in my storerooms at all times. Just as a tribute to my old days.”

  “Mountain Home, you say,” Aefric said with a smile.

  “Yes,” Wylyn said, chuckling again. “I must say, you’ve practically driven their baron to apoplexy.”

  Aefric looked sharply at Wylyn, and saw something more than humor hiding in those smoke gray eyes.

  “Oh, you gutter rat,” Aefric said, earning him an incredulous expression from Ser Beornric. “You sent that bastard to me as a test?”

  “Well,” Wylyn said, slowly. “I don’t know that I’d go that far. But I was curious to see how you’d handle him.”

  “His lordship seemed to be angling for a duel,” Ser Beornric said.

  “I’ve no doubt,” Wylyn said, shaking his head. “For all his bluster, he’s not one to be taken lightly. The man is a master with his rapier and loves to prove it in duels.”

  “Good way to guarantee a short life,” Aefric said.

  “He’s not a fool,” Wylyn said. “He would have goaded you into challenging him, if he could, so he’d get to choose weapons. But make no mistake, he’d only want to duel to first blood.”

  Wylyn shook his head again. “Likely wanted to be able to tell people he’d gotten the better of Deepwater’s famous duke.”

  “He almost became a hat rack.”

  Wylyn burst out laughing. “Oh, it might’ve been worth finding another baron for Mountain Home just to see that.”

  “I take it he’s a troublemaker?”

  Wylyn considered that through a breath. “A bit bellicose, but otherwise biddable enough. Though he did give me an earful about you. Did you really call him ‘sirrah?’”

  “He more than earned it.”

  “Lovely,” Wylyn said, grimacing. “Then he’ll likely continue complaining about you until Midwinter.”

  “Feh,” Aefric said. “I suspect he cheats in his duels anyway.”

  “Why would you say so?” Wylyn asked, refilling their glasses.

  “He wears a protective charm.”

  “He doesn’t,” Wylyn said, shocked.

  “He does. A bracer. Same place you wear yours.” Aefric patted his left arm. “Checked it out a bit while we were riding. Looks like it turns blades aside.”

  “Mine turns arrows aside,” Wylyn said, still looking amazed. “To think, all this time he’s been…” He raised one hand beside his mouth and called out, “Page!”

  The door was opened and the page from before poked his head in. “Your grace?”

  “Fetch Sifwyn for me.”

  “At once, your grace,” the page said, and closed the door as he left.

  “While we await her,” Wylyn said, raising his glass. “Here’s to honest duels, and the work of men like the three of us, who’ve seen more than our share of battle.”

  Aefric felt a little more hesitant to drink to that one, but he wanted to keep the camaraderie going, so he did.

  “You might think of making yourself a charm like this one,” Wylyn said, slapping his sleeve, where his bracer lay under his shirt.

  “I suspect that his grace can turn arrows aside easily enough,” Ser Beornric said.

  “Ah,” Wylyn said with a smile. “But it’s the arrow you don’t see coming that’ll get you. In fact…”

  And Wylyn told a story then from his old adventuring days, when they’d been delving into the tomb of a long-dead priest-king, whose undead guardians were said to have been leaving the tomb to drink the blood of the local peasants.

  Well, Wylyn and his crew handled the tomb guardians, and staved off the raising of that priest-king. And they’d made their way back to town, to celebrate, and spread around a little of the wealth they’d found inside that tomb.

  It was sometime later into the night, when the celebrations had moved in the courtyard behind the inn, with drinks and dancing and music—

  And suddenly Dointas, his crew’s wizard, clutched his throat and fell to the ground.

  The local town watch had been chasing a thief through the streets nearby. Let loose a volley of quarrels from their crossbows.

  One of those quarrels flew well wide, over the wall, and into the throat of Dointas.

  “…and so,” Wylyn was saying. “I commissioned this little baby with my share of the loot. And I’ve never regretted it.”

  The page knocked on the door, and announced, “Your grace’s ducal wizard, Sifwyn.”

  Sifwyn hadn’t even entered the room yet when Wylyn started talking to her.

  “Sifwyn, why did you never tell me that Leofstan wore a protective bracer?”

  Sifwyn was even shorter than Wylyn, but she still managed to sweep into the room, which was impressive.

  Still. The woman was so short, Aefric would have thought her to have eldrani blood, save that she clearly didn’t. Her face was too round for that, and her hair a very human shade of black, rather than the vibrant colors of the eldrani.

  She wore robes of bright red, sewn through with crystals of different colors and shapes. She wore her hair wound tightly down to her head, and carried a greenwood staff no taller than she was.

  The staff and four of the crystals were enchanted, as was an opal ring she wore, and a bracer on her left arm.

  Aefric missed whatever she said in answer to Wylyn’s question. Because as he regarded this woman, his thoughts all narrowed down to one.

  Aefric was looking at the magic-user who’d cast those spells in the Dragonscar.

  Aefric stood there in Wylyn’s library, staring at the woman who’d cast those spells in the Dragonscar. The woman who’d created those stone men.

  The woman directly responsible for the needless deaths and injuries of several of his soldiers. And perhaps others besides.

  There could be no doubt about this. No question. No worry over mistaken identity.

  Back in the Dragonscar, Aefric had performed a ritual that brought together and sifted through the remains of the spells that had created those stone men. Analyzed their magic more thoroughly than the nose of a hound can pick apart a scent.

  Every magic-user in Qorunn could be gathered together in one place, with all of them casting spells at the same time, and he would still spot the creator of those stone men in an instant.

  And he was looking at her.

  Right here. Right now.

  Righteous anger tightened his muscles. Clenched his jaw. Sped his heart. Heated his skin. For a moment, all he could hear was the rushing of his own blood.

  A dozen spells flitted through his mind…

  But then a voice cut through the haze.

  “Aefric?”

  Wylyn’s voice, and from the tone, it wasn’t the first time Wylyn had spoken to him.

  Sifwyn, the wizard in question, was staring back at Aefric. She looked puzzled. She moved her greenwood staff so it was between them, as though to ward off an attack.

  Ser Beornric, just to Aefric’s left, frowned in worry, and had one hand raised as though he might have to grab his duke.

  Wylyn, just to Aefric’s right, looked even more puzzled than Sifwyn. He had one hand raised, indicating that Sifwyn should stay back.

  Of course, some of that caution might have been because the Brightstaff’s diamond was shining bright enough to dim the midday sun.

  Damn it. Aefric was angry enough to be leaking magic, and more than a little. He had to watch that. He might want to kill this woman, but this was not the time, nor the place.

  And he needed a cover story for his reaction.

  Aefric flared his nostrils in a deep breath, and dimmed the diamond, but thought quickly and kept up his glare.

  Wylyn snapped his fingers in front of Aefric’s face, and said his name again.

  Aefric made a show of blinking, and turning his head to Wylyn, though he kept shifting his eyes back and forth between Wylyn and Sifwyn.

  “You two know each other, I take it?” Wylyn asked cautiously.

  “I have never seen his grace of Deepwater before this moment,” Sifwyn said carefully. “Though I know him by reputation, of course.”

  “Are you sure you’ve never seen me before?” Aefric asked, his voice low and letting out at least some of his anger. “Are you very sure of that?”

  “I am, your grace,” she said.

  “What’s going on, Aefric?” Wylyn asked, but now he was glancing curiously at his own court wizard as well.