A half dozen pennants flying, and chief among them…

  … the black bull, rampant, facing to the dexter on a background of purple.

  The flag of the county of Motte.

  Count Ferrin Ol’Nylla had arrived early, it seemed.

  Herewyn made a series of gestures with her left hand. Battlefield signals, unless Aefric was mistaken.

  Bowmen on the walls nodded acknowledgment.

  A half dozen of her knights approached on horseback from further back in the procession, along the left flank of the procession.

  Herewyn turned to Aefric.

  “There seems to be a misunderstanding in the mind of Count Ferrin regarding accommodations for the Feast. I should only require a moment to straighten this out, if your grace would not mind waiting.”

  “Not at all,” Aefric said. “In fact, if it would help, I would be happy to accompany you.”

  “Your grace is most kind to offer,” Herewyn said. “But I can handle Ferrin.”

  “To be clear,” Aefric said, as Herewyn began turning away. He waited until she looked back at him, curiosity in her bright green eyes, before continuing. “I never doubted that. I only wanted to watch the show.”

  Whatever Herewyn was expecting Aefric to say, it wasn’t that. Surprised laughter burst out of her, and she covered her mouth with one hand.

  “I find your grace’s frank humor most appealing,” she said with a smile that put a small frown on her cousin’s face. “But I suspect this will go more smoothly if your grace remains out here.”

  “I don’t think there’s any doubting that,” Beornric said with a rough chuckle. “Ferrin would take one look at his grace and set his feet.”

  “By all means then,” Aefric said, with a wave of his hand telling her to proceed. “Far be it for me to make your life harder.”

  That got him another quick smile, before Herewyn moved off to join her knights and ride past the gates.

  Once she was gone, Aefric said, “Ferrin was expected, I thought.”

  “Expected at the Feast, yes,” Sighild said, steering her horse a few steps closer. “But not at the keep.” She shook her head. “Last year, while he sat Duke Regent in Deepwater, Prince Killian attended the Feast, but declined hospitality in favor of renting out a pair of inns for himself and his entourage.”

  “Ah,” Aefric said, understanding. “So that made room in the keep for Ferrin?”

  “It did,” Sighild said, and frowned. “He shouldn’t have expected your grace to do the same, though. His highness spent much of his time as regent finding ways to put more money into Deepwater’s economy.”

  “His father kept him out of much of the Godswalk Wars,” Beornric said softly. “Didn’t want to risk his heir on the battlefield. I suspect Prince Killian felt guilty about that. Wanted to make it up to those who suffered, where he could.”

  Aefric could believe that. He’d only met Prince Killian briefly, but he seemed a good man.

  The conversation in the courtyard stretched on longer than expected. The knights and soldiers in the cavalcade began to grow restless.

  The smells of food seemed more enticing now. Lunch had been hours ago. And the sounds of work seemed sharper, easily drowning out whatever was being said in the courtyard.

  As Aefric looked ahead to the gates once more, he noticed that most of the archers on the walls were watching the courtyard, not their surroundings. And many of them kept one hand near their arrows…

  “Think she’s expecting trouble?” Aefric asked softly.

  He’d been asking Beornric, but Sighild answered.

  “I believe your grace knows that Count Ferrin … has something of a bellicose nature,” she said quietly. “Any time he comes with swords backing him up, my cousin has a tendency to keep her people ready. Just in case.”

  “I will not let this come to blows,” Aefric said. “Maybe I should head in there.”

  “No, your grace,” Beornric stage whispered.

  “Please desist, your grace,” Sighild implored, reaching out to grab Aefric’s hand on the reins. “Herewyn knows what she’s doing.”

  Someone spoke loudly in the courtyard. A man. Possibly Count Ferrin. But Aefric lost the details behind the nearby work sounds. Stalls might not have been allowed on the main street today, but they were clearly allowed on the side streets. Because they were being assembled at a quick pace.

  A shout now. A woman’s voice, but not Herewyn’s. Aefric picked out the word dare…

  He fought down a strong urge to ride ahead.

  “Beornric,” Aefric said.

  “Your grace?”

  “Would it be out of bounds for me to send you ahead to ask about the holdup?”

  “I shouldn’t think so, your grace.”

  “Sighild,” Aefric said, “would your cousin take that as an insult?”

  “I don’t believe so, your grace.”

  Aefric nodded at Beornric.

  Beornric began to spur his horse forward.

  Trumpets sounded out loudly, somewhere behind them.

  Bad enough that Aefric was still sitting his horse in the middle of the cobbled Asarchai town square, waiting for Herewyn to explain to Ferrin that he and his rather large entourage would have to seek accommodations elsewhere.

  Bad enough that, even though this was the fourth day before autumn, the afternoon was growing overwarm.

  Though, admittedly, that might’ve just been impatience on Aefric’s part. He was done with traveling for the day. He wanted to dismount. See his rooms. Clean up a little after the long day’s ride.

  Funny, that Beornric had called the road to Asarchai long. That morning, in Norrtarr, it hadn’t looked long. No more than three-fourths of a day’s ride, even as part of a huge cavalcade.

  But now that Aefric was here — and having to wait yet longer before he could actually arrive — the day was wearing on him even more than than the bright sun.

  Didn’t help that he could smell those juicy roasting meats and frying bacon, baking breads and pies and cakes.

  His stomach growled reminders that his lunch of roast chicken with crisp, ripe pears seemed a lifetime ago.

  No, all of that was bad enough.

  Now he could hear a trumpet announcing the arrival of … well, someone important enough to merit trumpeting their arrival. Aefric was still new enough to his title that he couldn’t pick out the different fanfares.

  He could recognize his own, and the royal fanfare. The one he heard now was neither.

  And what that really meant was that all of his and Herewyn’s knights and soldiers and other retainers were clogging the main street, while some other titled noble was trying to get through.

  An actual traffic jam, here in Asarchai. He thought he’d left those behind on Earth.

  Beornric, who’d been about to ride into the courtyard of the keep and see what was holding up the discussion between Count Ferrin and Baroness Herewyn, turned back to Aefric, the question plain on his face.

  “Go ahead,” Aefric said with a nod.

  Beornric frowned through his thick mustache, but spurred his horse past the remaining knights and soldiers, toward the courtyard of Herewyn’s tower keep.

  The Knights of the Lake closed ranks around Aefric. They didn’t come in tight enough to get in his way, but they surrounded him and Sighild close enough to take an arrow, if needed.

  Aefric looked back down the cavalcade. It was significantly smaller than earlier, when its ranks had been swelled by petty nobles and landed knights local to Norrtarr, as well as scores of common folk, traveling with the entourage for safety.

  All of those people were gone now, of course. They’d departed at the fields set aside for tents and pavilions and other camping.

  Nevertheless, the crowd behind Aefric was too big, and the wind too still, for him to spot a banner, let alone recognize one.

  “Did you know that fanfare?” Aefric asked Sighild.

  She shook her head. “Not royal, nor any noble from Deepwater.”

  “Not Merrek’s, either,” Ser Arras said, from the other side of Sighild. “Nor Silverlake’s.”

  It was an unacknowledged truth that Arras was the bastard daughter of Deepwater’s last duchess, Arinda Soulfist. And in Arras, Aefric could see the pale beauty that her mother must’ve had.

  Though Arras kept her shining black hair cut battlefield short. And her hazel eyes dared anyone to call her “pretty.” At least, while she wore her full plate armor.

  “A foreign noble then,” Aefric said, nonplussed.

  The Feast of Dereth Sehk wasn’t really celebrated outside of Norra. At least, not that Aefric had heard. The other nobles of Deepwater were always invited, but Norra’s barons were never offended by refusals.

  So far as Aefric knew, no foreign nobles had ever attended. Though, really, he would need to ask Herewyn, to be certain.

  Of course, if word had gotten out that Aefric would be attending, that might be enough to draw interest.

  Malimfar and Caiperas had both sent princesses to meet him only a few aetts ago. And he’d received word that Rethneryl, Hatay and Shachan all might seek a marriage alliance with Aefric and Deepwater…

  “Go back there and check it out,” Aefric said to Arras. “Let whoever it is know that we’ve been delayed by a misunderstanding, and will clear the street presently. And find out who it is.”

  “Yes, your grace,” Arras said with a small bow. She turned her horse and rode down along the side, past the other knights and soldiers, as well as the carts and wagons of Herewyn’s other retainers.

  Aefric was watching her ride off, when from the keep’s courtyard came a very loud, “Ha!”

  “That sounded like Ser Beornric,” Sighild said, and Aefric nodded agreement.

  Just what was Beornric doing in there?

  The archers on the walls all had hands ready to draw arrows now, though none had gone so far as to nock.

  Aefric shook his head. “They better not start a skirmish. Not with some foreign noble looking on…”

  “It won’t come to that, your grace,” Sighild said, though the look in her eyes was troubled, and she sounded as though she were trying to convince herself.

  And she betrayed another sign of nerves. Usually, whenever she had a few minutes alone with Aefric, she flirted. Ever since earlier in the summer, when she’d made known her intentions toward him.

  Intentions buoyed by Queen Eppida, who has promised to see Sighild well dowered — perhaps even given a grander title than the barony she was heir to — if Aefric decided to marry her.

  And Sighild had been much more open about her flirtations since Aefric first invited her to his rooms one night, a few aetts back.

  But during this very delay, she’d grabbed Aefric’s hand to implore him not to ride forward and investigate. And she’d withdrawn her hand without even giving his a squeeze first.

  Now her eyes were locked on the half-closed gate. Though if she could see some sign of what was going on in the courtyard, she had better eyes than Aefric.

  At last, though, the gates of the keep opened wide, and the first knights emerged, mounted, flying pennants bearing the sigil of Motte.

  Following those knights, the whole of Ferrin’s entourage, including the count himself, who seemed to go out of his way not to notice or acknowledge Aefric.

  Ferrin’s knights proceeded down a side street, possibly towards the campgrounds, to set up their pavilions.

  Sighild gave Aefric a bright smile. “As I said, your grace. My cousin knows how to handle him.”

  Beornric came riding back.

  “It’s handled, your grace,” he said, smiling. “Her lordship awaits you within, once his nibs gets his people out of the way.”

  “And just what was that ‘Ha!’ about?” Aefric asked.

  “Oh, a small matter only, your grace,” Beornric said, smiling broadly behind his mustache. “Nothing that should be of concern.”

  “Well,” Aefric said, “if it’s a small matter, then there should be no trouble—”

  “Ser Arras returns,” Sighild said, pointing back to where Ser Arras was, indeed, riding back along the outside of the train of horses, carts and people.

  Aefric gave Sighild a suspicious look. The timing of her observation could have been construed as changing the subject…

  A season ago, Aefric would have bought the innocence in her eyes, as she looked back at him. He knew her better now, though. Distraction had been entirely her goal here.

  But why?

  Either way, Arras rode up looking pale and slightly stricken.

  Aefric sat straighter in his saddle to see such a look on so unflappable a knight, as did Beornric beside him. Aefric casually reached for the Brightstaff, where it sat in its sling attached to his saddle. He did not draw it forth yet, though.

  Arras bowed in her saddle. “Your grace, behind us rides a woman identified to me as Princess Sorcha Diadiniu.” She met Aefric’s eyes. “Of Kefthal.”

  Kefthal.

  There were only a few lands across Qorunn that Aefric thought of as evil. Chaotic Hayroun, controlled by its series of inconsistent, yet always warring factions.

  Foul Zhenderran, with its reputation for dark, twisted rites — not all of which were tied to their gods.

  Chief among these evil lands, though, was Kefthal. Oppressive Kefthal. Slave-ridden Kefthal. Ruled by…

  “But Kefthal couldn’t have a princess,” Aefric said, frowning back at the stricken mien of Arras. “They have no monarch. They’re ruled by the Nine Beyond Death.”

  The Nine Beyond Death. A council of necromancers. Possibly all liches. Rumors conflicted on that point, and if anyone living had ever seen them, Aefric didn’t know about it.

  Sighild made a small, nervous sound that drew his attention. Her green eyes were always large, but as she turned to Aefric then, they seemed almost to swallow her face.

  “Kefthal?” she said, her voice steadier than her aspect. “Here?”

  “So it seems,” Aefric said, loudly, trying to suppress the sudden rush of conversation surrounding him from the lips of his Knights of the Lake.

  Not that Aefric could blame them. Talk of Kefthal was for late nights around a campfire, not a bright, late summer day in a vibrant town square.

  His knights grew quiet, to hear what Aefric said next. For a moment, the sounds of impatient horses and distant construction and revelry made the topic feel even stranger.

  But rather than speaking, Aefric raised an eyebrow at Arras.

  “I know little more than I have already spoken, your grace. Her herald gave her name as Sorcha Diadiniu, and Princess of Kefthal was the title attributed to her.”

  She grimaced. “I thought it imprudent to ask to see her patent of nobility.”

  Aefric snorted. “I quite agree.” He turned to his knight-adviser. “What do you think?”

  “This is the first I’ve heard of Kefthal claiming a princess,” Beornric said. “But it is said that the Nine live like kings, dividing Kefthal among them. Perhaps she claims kinship with one.”

  Aefric considered that through a long, slow breath.

  “Well,” he said, “I cannot imagine why anyone would claim a title from Kefthal unless they had one. We’ll have to treat her claim as valid for now, and send plenty of rikas, once we’re inside Herewyn’s tower.”

  “There remains one more matter, your grace,” Arras said. “Princess Sorcha requests the honor of a ‘quick word’ while we’re all stalled in the street.”

  “If we’re not going to dispute her claim to be a princess…” Beornric cautioned.

  Aefric sighed. “Then I can’t very well refuse her. All right. I guess there’s no harm in my talking to her.”

  “Not with your knights close at hand, no,” Beornric said firmly.

  Aefric chuckled. “I hadn’t meant to go alone.”

  “Yrsa’s not here,” Beornric said with a smile. “And she asked me to make sure your grace—”

  “Didn’t do anything excessively stupid?”

  “I don’t believe she said ‘excessively.’”

  Aefric gave Beornric a droll look.

  “Well,” Beornric hedged, “your grace has encouraged her to speak her mind.”

  “Let’s go,” he said, then, almost as an afterthought added to Sighild. “Would you mind riding ahead, and informing Herewyn about all this?”

  “Happily, your grace,” Sighild said with a flirty smile that looked more normal for her.

  Aefric and his Knights of the Lake moved outside the procession, then, and made their way back to the rear, where this so-called princess of Kefthal waited.

  Necromancy was … an unusual art, even among the various types of Qorunn’s magic. It seemed to manifest along several different, distinct paths.

  There was necromancy involved in the way clerics would lay restless spirits to rest. In the ways shamans communicated with their ancestors.

  Some even said that there was necromancy in the healing arts of the clerics of Nilasah herself. Though Aefric doubted that.

  Aefric had felt both those other forms of necromancy before, as well as similar forms, and they’d all felt almost … warm. Heartening. Like some small reassurance that there were natural aspects to life beyond death and that their magics that could smooth the way.

  But there were darker paths of necromancy of well. Spells that created hideous mockeries of life. Rites that bound the dead into service, or even tortured the very souls of the living.

  Aefric’s experience with those darker forms had been limited, but all too intense. He would never forget the common sensation such magics carried.

  They all felt cold. Not the chill of crisp winter morning air, either, but the leeching freeze of soaking sea winds in the depth of winter that make warmth seem like a mere fever dream of the dying.

  Aefric felt a whisper of that cold now, riding closer to this company said to be from Kefthal. And with that whisper, the undeniable sense of necromancy.

  Perhaps this Princess Sorcha truly was from Kefthal?

  Well, whoever she was, she traveled with two score knights. All clad in full plate armor of black steel. They wore bat winged helmets, all with their visors down.