“And those routes go through Redport?”

  “They have three common ports within an aett’s sail of Deepwater,” Aefric said. “The first is in Kefthal. The second is Wulfport. The third, alas, is Redport.”

  “What else have you turned up?” Wylyn said. “About Redport?”

  “Nothing so far,” Aefric said. “I allowed my court wizard to visit Redport to confirm that those ships had docked there, and when, but that was all. I refused to allow him any further investigation in Redport until I spoke with you.”

  “Good of you,” Wylyn said. “I appreciate that.” He cocked his head. “That’s why you came here through Alimar’s Launch, isn’t it?”

  “One reason, yes,” Aefric said. “But it is a more direct ride.”

  Wylyn tilted his hand in a more-or-less gesture and said, “It looks that way on a map, but it’s about the same in practice. The road from Redport is smoother and straighter.”

  “I … wasn’t sure about the reception I’d receive here,” Aefric said. “So I also wanted to avoid Redport so there could be no question of my doing anything there.”

  “You thought you might be meeting a man who supports slavers?” Wylyn said, his voice the calm of a storm about to break.

  “Not at all,” Aefric said firmly. “I know your reputation of old, and I know you harbor no more love for slavers than I do.” Aefric quirked a smile at him. “But I’d been warned that my installation … might not sit well with you.”

  Wylyn laughed. The man seemed to shift from ready to fight to perfectly at ease with impressive speed and comfort.

  “It’s true that Colm promised he’d send his list of ducal candidates to Ashling and me for our opinions, and then never got around to it,” Wylyn said, shaking his head. “But after I met you that day at Armityr, I knew we’d been cut from the same cloth. Survivors, yes, but only if the world stays a place worth surviving in.”

  “Just so,” Aefric said, and raised his ishka in a toast.

  They drank.

  “So,” Wylyn said, as they set their empty glasses down on the table. “Kefthal, Wulfport and Redport. Sickens me to have one of my ports in a list that includes both Kefthal and Malimfar.”

  “I hate to deliver the news of it,” Aefric said. “But I knew I had to come to you myself with it.”

  “And I appreciate that,” Wylyn said, reaching over and clapping Aefric on the shoulder. He poured them each another small glass of ishka. “Well. Kefthal and Wulfport. Shouldn’t do anything about them without bringing in Colm.”

  “He’s coming to visit me,” Aefric said. “I was told it might be a check to see how I’m doing.”

  “Probably is,” Wylyn said. “But you can tell him about Wulfport and Kefthal when he’s there.”

  “That was my plan.”

  “Redport, I’ll handle myself,” Wylyn said. “And if that bitch Briluufa’s wantonly harboring slavers, I’ll have her drawn and quartered.”

  “I don’t know that she’s involved,” Aefric said carefully.

  “Don’t know that she’s not, either,” Wylyn said. “And I intend to get to the bottom of this.”

  He stood. Started pacing.

  “I’ll have four of my best agents on the road by midnight,” he said. “Get them to town and in place before I arrive with a bigger party.”

  He turned to Aefric. “I’ll want to leave in the morning to see about this. I hate to cut your visit short—”

  “I have both our monarchs coming for a visit,” Aefric said, standing. “I need to get back before my seneschal bursts from worry.”

  Wylyn reached out to clasp forearms with Aefric.

  “You’re a good man to bring this to me directly,” Wylyn said. “I won’t forget it.”

  “I’m just glad to find that my neighbor to the north is still the man I heard tales about when I first started out adventuring.”

  They drank their last glasses of ishka, and when Wylyn threw his empty glass to shatter in the hearth, Aefric followed suit.

  “Go get a good night’s sleep then,” Wylyn said. “We’ll both want to leave with the dawn. Wish I could ask you to come hunting slavers with me.”

  “Another time,” Aefric said. “After all, we may get permission to deal with Wulfport or Kefthal.”

  “If you deal with Kefthal without me,” Wylyn said, “I’ll never forgive you.”

  Aefric laughed. They clasped arms again, and retired to their rooms.

  Alone, back in his rooms, Aefric stared out the window at the night. The winds were gentle now, though they smelled a bit of coal smoke. The moon was two-thirds full as it made its slow ascent to join the stars above.

  And Aefric felt like a bad person.

  Wylyn seemed to be such a good man. Such an upfront man. He certainly didn’t seem to be the sort of person who could have sent spies into the Dragonscar, then had his wizard cast deadly spells to protect that discovery.

  And yet, it was undoubtedly his wizard who had cast those spells.

  What if he didn’t know? What if this was part of some kind of plot behind Wylyn’s back? Countess Briluufa, maybe, conspiring with Sifwyn?

  If so, the right thing to do would have been to tell him.

  But Aefric didn’t tell him. What was more, he’d lied about Sifwyn. He’d lied to the man who had greeted him like a brother, and welcomed him at his dinner table not like a visiting duke, but like long lost family.

  At the very least, Aefric could have told him about the gold discovered in the Dragonscar. Come clean and discussed the issue right there. Let the two of them settle things without involving the crown.

  But he hadn’t even done that.

  Aefric shook himself. No. In the long run, he’d probably done the smart thing. Wylyn could easily be a better liar than Aefric could ever have guessed.

  Plus, retired adventurer or not, the man had been a duke for decades. And his lands were suffering, even worse than Aefric’s were.

  It was entirely possible that Wylyn not only knew about the gold in the Dragonscar, but also had ordered his court wizard to cast those spells. To protect the discovery until Wylyn himself was in a position to do something about that gold.

  The man liked to relax in his war library. Clearly he was used to thoughts of strategy and tactics. And wasn’t that the question Aefric was facing?

  Whose strategies? Whose tactics?

  No. Wylyn smiled and said the right things, but that didn’t make him innocent. And Aefric had to protect his own lands and people.

  Telling Wylyn the truth now about what was going on in the Dragonscar, that was probably the worst thing Aefric could have done.

  Yes, Aefric decided. Tonight he’d probably dodged the arrow he hadn’t seen coming. Even if that arrow was metaphorical.

  Aefric still felt as though he were the one betraying a trust. Guilt played sour in his belly.

  What if…

  Aefric’s brooding was interrupted by a soft knock at the door.

  Aefric sighed, and shook his head. Tried to look as though he were just a happy, contented guest. Only then did he call to the knocker.

  “Yes?”

  The door opened, and in came a young serving woman.

  “Your grace,” she said with a bow. “I’ve been given permission to offer your grace leaba, if he would do me the honor and the pleasure of accepting.”

  Her smile was pretty, and her eyes both bright and eager.

  In that moment, Aefric understood an unspoken truth behind leaba, and even behind the noble privilege.

  A pretty face and a willing heart go a long way to dispelling a fit of brooding, and the cares of office.

  For a time, at least.

  “The honor is mine,” Aefric said with a smile, “but I hope the pleasure will be shared.”

  8

  Baron Leofstan was blissfully absent when Aefric and his knights prepared to leave Castle Stormsent the next morning.

  Wylyn had an impressively large party getting ready to leave at the same time.

  “Camouflage,” he said with a smile, while his and Aefric’s horses were readied. “If I show up for a formal visit, and do all the formal things, everyone will be looking at me. No one will notice Okelai and my agents digging into other matters.”

  “You taught her your old skills?” Aefric said with smile.

  “Elbar’s Blood yes,” Wylyn said. “Not leaving the next generation defenseless. I’m not one of you wizardly types after all. I can’t live forever.”

  “No one lives forever,” Aefric said. “Not even the eldrani.”

  And so with fresh supplies and freshly cleaned versions of the same clothes he’d worn during his travel the day before, Aefric and his knights left Castle Stormsent.

  With a soldier along, as guide through the city.

  Apparently there were six routes to Castle Stormsent from the outskirts of Stormsent City. One of them was wide and broad, and included all the market squares and public gathering places, along the whole way down to the lake.

  But that route didn’t connect to any of the roads that led out of Stormsent by land.

  The other five routes to the castle were all designed after the fashion of the path Baron Leofstan had led Aefric yesterday. They were dull and confusing, and intended to slow invaders down while forcing them to come through designated killing zones before they could ever reach the castle.

  And that those routes led away from the more populated areas meant that these routes protected the people and the wealth of Stormsent, as well as the nobility.

  Once out of the city, the road back through the Silverlake countryside was much the way it had been on the way in. All too heavily hit by those sinkholes of the dybbungstad and their demon twins.

  “They’ve lost most of their forests,” Ser Beornric said, while they were riding past the first of the larger sinkholes.

  “What do you mean?” Aefric asked, plucked from other thoughts. “They cut them too deep without planting more trees?”

  “No, your grace.” Ser Beornric pointed to a sinkhole large enough to have swallowed a town. “You were right about those being places the armies of the dybbungstad and their demon twins came through to the surface. Sometimes through farms and towns, but not always.”

  “Sometimes they came up under forests?”

  “Yes,” Ser Beornric said, grimly. “Sometimes mere groves and copses, but that one great sinkhole we saw? The one we’ll be passing again close to midday today?” Ser Beornric shook his head. “That was once a mighty forest. Some of the oldest trees in Silverlake. And now it’s gone.”

  “That’s why all the coal smoke,” Aefric said.

  Ser Beornric nodded. “They’re facing quite a timber shortage. And because the rest of us need so much timber for our own rebuilding, the prices are exorbitant.”

  Aefric let out a sigh, but Ser Beornric snapped his fingers three times quickly.

  “I know that look, your grace,” he said, shaking his head sharply. “This is not your problem to solve. Duke Wylyn will find a way. He’ll deal with it.”

  “All right,” Aefric said, but he still considered that question as they rode that day.

  The day was warm for riding, but not overhot. And the winds didn’t whip quite as sharply as they had the day before. Still Aefric found it comforting as the smell of the winds shifted from carrying grasses and crops to carrying the salt of sea air.

  They snacked during their brief rest periods on venison jerky, and apples.

  Well, the knights snacked on apples. Aefric was still not ready to eat another apple. So he made do with the jerked venison, and some leftover honeyed oat bread from breakfast.

  They rode back into Alimar’s Launch late that afternoon, to the surprise of the harbormaster, Henks, who blinked so fast at the sight of Aefric and his knights that Aefric half-expected the man’s eyelashes to achieve liftoff.

  The Duke’s Hand was waiting and ready, and her captain, Sikel, had them sailing out of port on the evening tide.

  Aefric and Ser Beornric took their dinner on the duke’s afterdeck. A good strong beer, to go with a trencher filled with a mixture of roasted meats and gravy, along with a hearty cheese, and fresh nava fruit.

  They’d eaten, and settled into a comfortable silence broken only by the snap of the sails, the creaking of the rigging, the hush of the sea and the calls of the sailors at their tasks.

  At length, Ser Beornric spoke. “I mean it, your grace. You cannot solve everyone’s problems. We need our wood. Duke Wylyn can find his own.”

  “I know that,” Aefric said, watching for the first stars of the evening to see which would twinkle first.

  “So you’re telling me you haven’t been mentally reviewing Kentigern’s timber reports, and trying to figure out where you can spare a shipment of wood to sell to Duke Wylyn below the current going rate?”

  Aefric started laughing hard enough he had to steady his beer on the arm of his chair.

  “I knew it,” Ser Beornric said, shaking his head.

  “How did you know?” Aefric asked.

  “Your grace,” Ser Beornric said, “I have known you for a little over a season now. And in that time, I have found that no matter how many problems face you, you’re willing to take on more if it means helping others.”

  Aefric sipped his beer without comment. A little more bitter than he liked, but a good brew nonetheless.

  “I admire you for it. In general. But in this case, your grace, I implore you. Leave it alone.” Ser Beornric leaned a little closer. “If Duke Wylyn wanted your help, he would have said so.”

  “Perhaps,” Aefric said.

  “For certain,” Ser Beornric said firmly. “You two were getting along very well. That would have been the time for him to ask for help. Instead, it’s quite obvious that he never mentioned their timber shortage.”

  “Why did you then?”

  Ser Beornric shook his head. “Because I thought it would help if you knew that the giant valley of a sinkhole had been a forest, not a city.”

  “Each is a special kind of problem.”

  “And not yours to fix,” Ser Beornric said. “You have slavers and smugglers. Dragonscar gold and dead soldiers. Missing lers and smallfolk. Marriage options. Incoming monarchs. And, of course, your recalcitrant count.”

  “That does seem to be more than enough for any one person to handle,” Aefric had to admit.

  “And those are just the things I can think of offhand.”

  “Explains why you forgot Kivash.”

  “You think that the castle Duchess Ashling gave you presents a problem?”

  “An entire castle, and the land it sits on, and everything within it,” Aefric said. “That doesn’t sound like a problem to you?”

  “Sounds like a gift box to me,” Ser Beornric admitted. “Just waiting to be opened.”

  “Maybe,” Aefric admitted. “Maybe. But just maybe I’ll also find out that Ashling surveyed the contents of each castle herself before deciding to give that one to me. Which would lead me to ask why? What’s inside that she wants me to deal with, rather than dealing with it herself?”

  Ser Beornric nodded. “You’re capable of being very suspicious. When you put your mind to it.” He nodded again. “I approve.”

  Aefric chuckled.

  “I’m not joking, your grace,” Ser Beornric said. “Duchess Ashling and Duke Wylyn, they’ve shown you their good sides so far. But make no mistake. They both have bad sides. And you’ll see those too someday. So best you be ready when it happens.”

  “A lovely thought for a lovely night,” Aefric said.

  “What did I tell you before?” Ser Beornric asked.

  “I know, I know. Threat assessment is a big part of your job.”

  “It is indeed, your grace,” Ser Beornric said.

  Aefric stayed on deck, talking with Ser Beornric, for quite some time. But as the hour grew late, he retired to his cabin below. And when he emerged the next morning, they were sailing into port at Water’s End.

  Just inside the beautiful, shimmering navy blue walls on the north side of the Castle at Water’s End sat a practice ground large enough to serve as a small tourney field. Assuming grandstands were brought in.

  It was large enough to have two practice jousts going at the same time, while still allowing room at both ends for training at melee, and at least one target shooting range. Or three such ranges, if no one needed practice with a lance that day.

  Storage rooms along the wall held everything that training might require.

  On a normal morning, soldiers, castle guards, and knights would rotate through on a schedule, keeping all of Aefric’s warriors in fighting shape, should they be needed.

  That morning, however, the normal drilling and training stopped as those knights, soldiers and guards watched their duke take the field.

  Usually, Aefric trained with one or two knights in his own small practice yard, high up in the castle.

  That morning, though, the practice yard was too far away. His own sword was too far away.

  No. That morning, Aefric no sooner disembarked the Duke’s Hand than led the way straight to the practice ground and took a longsword from a storage room.

  He set the Brightstaff aside for a time, and reminded all watchers that he had, in fact, trained as a dweomerblade.

  Aefric was quick with that blade. And as he’d been taught, he could fight with either hand, or both on the hilt, as any given move required.

  Like most dweomerblades, his style was acrobatic. Mobile. And power flared, sparked, and glowed with every spin, leap, and strike, even though he held back the true magic of those moves.

  After all, this was only training.

  He trained with each of the knights of his personal guard that morning, save for Ser Beornric, whose role was to oversee and critique.

  Aefric wasn’t as good as any of those knights he sparred with that morning. Not without using magic. But he was unpredictable enough, and mobile enough, to at least make them work.

  And he had the stamina, as well. He trained hard with all six knights, all through the rising heat of morning, while Ser Beornric’s implacable voice called out “too slow there,” “watch your grip,” “too late, the opening closed,” and other admonishments that Aefric needed to try harder than he already was.