“As your grace’s second dance with her ended, I noticed the way her hands lingered whenever she found a pretext for touching. I decided she was worth asking about.”

  “Fair enough,” Aefric said. “And since you’re all so curious, it’s like this. Baroness Blaewyn asked me to choose one of her ladies for the noble privilege. I asked her who her troublemakers were, so I wouldn’t accidentally choose one.”

  “Very thoughtful, your grace,” Ser Beornric said.

  “Ah,” Ser Arras said, as though the rest made sense now.

  All the other knights looked the question at her. She pretended not to notice.

  Aefric finally started laughing. “Oh, tell them. You’ve obviously figured it out.”

  “Ler Idrina is a charismatic woman, and a vocal supporter of the baroness’ recovery plan. A plan that some of her lers oppose.”

  “Did your grace ask what that plan is?” Ser Beornric asked.

  “No,” Aefric said, with a one-shoulder shrug. “From what I understand, the Ol’Felruun family has done a good job with this barony for a long time. Far be it for me to come in and start questioning the baroness’ decisions, unless she gives me a reason not to trust her.”

  “A policy that should make your grace’s vassals very happy.”

  “One can only hope,” Aefric said. “Although Ser Arras forgot to mention the other reason I chose Idrina.”

  “Second reason, your grace?” Ser Arras asked.

  “Yes,” Aefric said laughing. “Idrina is not only very pretty, she’s also an excellent dancer and a charming conversationalist. I wanted to help her lordship, but I’m not a saint, either.”

  “A saint, your grace?” Ser Micham asked, and Aefric saw that the question was echoed on the faces of the other knights.

  Oops. That was an expression from his life on Earth, in Oregon. Apparently it wasn’t an expression here in Qorunn.

  Odd that it should have come to his lips that morning. Something about this conversation — being teased about a lover — must’ve echoed his experiences as Keifer.

  Of course. Keifer’s college days, back before he met Andi. Or maybe it was late high school…

  Not a topic he needed to sort through right then.

  “Don’t you have saints here in Armyr?” Aefric asked instead, affecting surprise. Looked from knight to knight. “I suppose not. I ran into the concept at a monastery down around the Cape of Teeth. A saint is someone who do devotes himself or herself to the precepts of their god so completely that they forgo all … worldly pleasures. They eat only simple food, wear only simple clothes, and forgo the bliss moment entirely.”

  More than one of his knights shuddered at the thought, though it was Ser Vria who said, “Any god who asked me to forgo the bliss moment would find himself short a worshiper.”

  There was a general chorus of consent to that.

  “I do believe our good duke here is distracting us from the most important question about this Ler Idrina,” Ser Beornric said with a sly smile. “Just how pretty and charming do you find her? Should we add her to your grace’s growing list of potential wives?”

  “Stop. Right. There,” Aefric said with a chagrined smile, raising a warning hand. “We’ll have no marriage talk on this trip. None!”

  He grimaced. “Well. None unless their majesties bring it up. But in the meantime, none. Am I understood?”

  “Yes, your grace,” the knights all called out in unison.

  Aefric looked at them suspiciously. He was met with innocent expressions that he didn’t believe in the least.

  Once Aefric was convinced that his knights would drop the subject of potential wives, he turned his attention to the ride and looked over the recovery efforts around him as they made their way east toward Norrtarr through the steadily warming afternoon.

  Felspark was definitely further along the road to recovery than Goldenfall — at least, from what could be seen from the road — though neither was as far along as Aefric would have liked.

  He could still spot the areas where burned out towns and farms had been cleared away, but rebuilding had not yet begun. And even more sections where the land had yet to recover, especially on the northern, Goldenfall side.

  Still. There were definite signs of progress and hope, as they rode through the late afternoon heat.

  Traffic was encouraging as well. More local traffic along here, and still more merchant caravans and parties of traveling nobles. A fair amount of it was clearly related to construction, but not all of it.

  Aefric and his party arrived at Norrtarr well ahead of the setting sun.

  Unlike between the baronies of Riverbreak and Felspark, which were divided with border markers, a clear physical feature divided Felspark from the barony of Norra, and Goldenfall from the county of Motte.

  A cliffs’ edge. About five hundred feet high.

  The Kingsroad, leaving Felspark, descended smoothly down a pass cut between the east edges of Goldenfall and Felspark.

  Norrtarr lay only a few miles down the road, the first settlement east of the cliffs. On the Motte side of the road, now, were swamps and marshes, making for the least pleasant part of the ride, in terms of smell.

  Sometimes, while traveling, Aefric had passed through forests burned out by wildfire. Sometimes, among the burnt husks, he would see individual trees still whole and hale. Untouched, even while their closest neighbors burned to cinders.

  The town of Norrtarr reminded Aefric of those lone, healthy trees.

  Norrtarr had no wall. And yet, the Godswalk Wars had passed it by completely. As though all the armies involved had conspired together to simply let it stand.

  Even from the road, Aefric could see the granite of the older buildings, and the wood or wood over granite of the newer buildings, without spotting a single demolished or burnt ruin.

  Life bustled in Norrtarr. He could smell their cook and work fires, and the aromas of some of that cooking. He could even hear smiths hammering and other such work sounds in the distance.

  Fortunate, those people. And fortunate their baroness, whose castle sat a hill just a hair south of the town.

  But the baroness was not in that castle. As Aefric approached the town along the Kingsroad, he saw her sitting a palomino horse in the road ahead of him, accompanied by a half-dozen knights in full plate.

  One of them held the Norra banner high: a white horse, rampant, on a sky blue background.

  Baroness Herewyn Ol’Norette had seen only about five summers more than Aefric, but she held herself with such poise and confidence that for a moment he felt like an awkward teen again.

  She wore a forest green tunic over dark, reddish-brown riding leathers and high, hard leather boots. She bore a short sword at her belt, and just enough gold at her wrists and her pale throat to catch the sun. Though her shimmering, waist-length red hair did an even better job of that, worn loose and flowing down past her shoulders.

  “Your grace,” she called by way of a greeting, before anyone could announce either of them. She hopped off her saddle to land effortlessly on the road.

  Baroness Herewyn bowed deeply. “It is with great joy that I welcome you to Norra once more. Would that I could offer your grace the hospitality of my home for a time, while we await the arrival of our king and queen, though I suspect that will not be possible.”

  “Why not?” Aefric asked, swinging down from the back of Windsong, and approaching so he could kiss the baroness’ hand.

  “The rika from your seneschal made clear that your grace intends to meet their majesties on the Kingsroad.” She shook her head. “My scouts tell me that will not be possible today, nor perhaps tomorrow.”

  “They can’t be moving that slowly,” Aefric said, running calculations in his head. “But if they are, maybe I can meet them by Kerrik after all.”

  “Alas,” Baroness Herewyn said, “speed is not the problem.”

  Cold suspicion ran down Aefric’s back.

  “Your lordship is trying not to tell me something,” he said carefully. “But I think it’s better if I’m told.”

  “I merely wished to prepare your grace, rather than spring the bad news on him.”

  Her mouth flattened into a line of distaste.

  “Their majesties were met along the Kingsroad this morning, as they reached the town of Drywood.”

  Aefric sighed. “You don’t mean by your people, do you.”

  It wasn’t a question, but she answered it anyway.

  “No, your grace. Their majesties were met by Count Ferrin of Motte, who escorted them north into his lands to host them for the night.”

  Count Ferrin of Motte. The vassal who had actively worked against Aefric this past spring, and now was the vassal most likely to try to make Aefric look bad.

  “I wish I could stay,” Aefric started but stopped as Baroness Herewyn nodded.

  “I understand completely, your grace,” she said, and gestured for someone to approach.

  Apparently there was a seventh rider back behind the knights. The woman who approached who could only have been a scout. And not just because she wore brown and green leathers instead of full plate, carried a bow, and rode a light, swift-looking brown gelding instead of a warhorse.

  She just had the look of a woman who was more at home alone among the trees than she’d ever be at any court. Or perhaps even in a house.

  “This is Payoom,” Baroness Herewyn said. “She followed where Motte led.”

  Payoom nodded. “King Colm’s entourage was too big to go far. I can get your grace to them before full night, if we leave at once.”

  “Thank you,” Aefric said, then kissed Baroness Herewyn’s hand again. “And thank you, your lordship.”

  “My pleasure, your grace. Happy hunting.”

  Aefric had only ever entered Motte once, and he hadn’t been ahorse then.

  No, this was back when Aefric was first settling himself as duke. He hadn’t even been to Water’s End yet, instead taking care of business from Behal.

  Count Ferrin, in his arrogance, had thought himself safely ensconced in his Castle Kirandai when he threatened to take up arms against his rightful liege.

  Aefric had used the Brightstaff to transform himself into a bolt of lightning. He flashed across the intervening miles, blew open the doors of Castle Kirandai and humiliated the count in front of his court.

  But they couldn’t be riding for Castle Kirandai. It sat at near the northeast corner of Motte. Easily two days’ travel from the Kingsroad, for a group the size of the royal party. Possibly three.

  They were met this morning. Turned somewhere north, but were someplace that Aefric could reach with only a few hours’ ride…

  Of course, they had to push their horses a bit for that ride. Fortunately, Aefric had been free with the rests earlier in the day, believing they would easily outpace the royal party to Norrtarr.

  The path Payoom led them clung to the Kingsroad just long enough to get clear of the last of Motte’s nearby marshes, then cut an angle northeast across the drier plains.

  Motte had never built much near the Kingsroad to begin with. And since the wars, they hadn’t rebuilt any of their lost towns and farms close to their southern border.

  So far as Aefric knew, the only town Motte had along the Kingsroad was Drywood, back at the western edge of the Kerrik Forest.

  So it was across plains and hills that Payoom led them through the last dregs of the afternoon. But as evening approached, Aefric decided he didn’t like what he was seeing among his horses.

  Too much effort. Too much spittle. Too much sweat. Eyes that looked less and less settled.

  Aefric called the halt while the burning red of the western skies hadn’t quite reached the blue above the Kerrik Forest to the east.

  “Your grace,” Payoom said quickly, “if we take time to rest the horses, we’ll never make that castle before full dark.”

  “We won’t,” Aefric said. “If we try, we may well lose at least one of these horses. There’s a better path here.”

  “Your grace,” Payoom said hesitantly, looking around as though trying to see a road where there was none.

  “This is what we’re going to do,” Aefric said. “The soldiers will stay here with the horses. Camp for the night. When they do, you’re welcome to join our camp, or return to Norra.”

  “But,” Payoom said slowly, “I thought it was important that your grace reached their majesties tonight.”

  “It is,” Aefric said. He dug his backpack out of his saddlebag. Dug through the backpack for a gift he’d gotten from the king. Something that looked for all the world like a little toy coach.

  He set the toy coach down, and whispered its keyword. “Arcoa.”

  The coach sprang into the air and changed into a full-size, enclosed carriage with an audible pop

  The coach was ebony, trimmed with gold leaf, and bore the Deepwater sigil on each of its two doors, and on pennants that flew from each corner.

  Aefric knew from experience that the two bench seats within were padded and upholstered in pale gray silk, with the Deepwater sigil embroidered on the backs of the seats. The floor was likewise carpeted in pale gray.

  “Your grace,” Ser Beornric said softly. “As I recall, there’s room enough inside for the two of us and all six of your knights, leaving seats for four on the outside. Should your grace wish to bring any soldiers.”

  “I do not,” Aefric said, quietly. “I’d rather leave them here as a unit, and traveling as a unit.” He turned to Payoom. “What is the name of the place Count Ferrin took their majesties?”

  “He calls it Forest’s Edge, your grace,” she said. “It sits at the northwest tip of Kerrik Forest. The fastest way there—”

  “The carriage will know,” Aefric said confidently.

  Payoom bowed. “Then, if I may, I shall remain with your grace’s soldiers tonight and lead them to Forest’s Edge in the morning.”

  “I would appreciate that,” Aefric said. “Thank you.”

  Then it was just a matter of getting his soldiers started on setting up camp, with full instructions about how to handle any contact they received.

  Once that was done, Aefric boarded the coach, while his knights strapped their luggage to the top, before joining him inside.

  Once all eight of them were seated, Aefric addressed the carriage. “Forest’s Edge.”

  The carriage shot forward as though pulled by a team of speeding horses.

  Aefric knew from experience that the carriage would follow the road by preference. But as they were not on a road right now, it simply took the most direct, available route.

  “This is spooky,” Ser Wardius said, gazing out a window. It felt odd to hear a man as scarred as Ser Wardius call anything “spooky.” Especially something as familiar to Aefric as magic.

  “I can see how uneven the land is beneath us,” he continued, “But…”

  “But the carriage seems to smooth it out,” Aefric said. “Wonderful design, this carriage. A good deal of subtle magic to it.”

  They sped across the countryside faster than Aefric would have pushed his horses if they were fresh. As though the carriage had sensed his urgency, and was trying to make the trip as short as possible.

  The skies ahead of them were just darkening towards night as Ser Temat, who had been angling out the window to keep an eye on the road ahead of them called out, “Lights ahead. Has to be a castle.”

  A speculation he shortly confirmed, as they closed the distance. Finally the carriage rolled to a halt. Sers Temat and Vria leapt out first, checking the surroundings.

  Aefric moved to join them, but Ser Beornric shook his head. Said softly, “We’ve likely reached the castle walls. Better your grace doesn’t step out until we’re past the gates. Looks better.”

  Aefric nodded and sat back, drumming his fingers impatiently.

  He did, at least, look out the window to his right. In the rising night, he couldn’t see as much as he might have liked, but he could see the beginnings of Kerrik Forest. Here he saw mostly beeches, elms, and oaks.

  “Ho! Gatekeeper!” Ser Vria called out.

  “Who calls?” came the response. A male voice, but not very deep.

  “I am Ser Vria Aldellac, and beside me stands Ser Temat Ol’Lazenac. We are knights in service to his grace, Ser Aefric Brightstaff, Duke of Deepwater, Baron of Netar, and Hero of the Battles of Deepwater and Frozen Ridge, who awaits entry into your castle.”

  Silence.

  For a long moment, Aefric could hear only the buzzing of night insects. The cries of a few birds. The impatient rustling of the knights around him on the seats.

  Aefric wondered at the hesitation. Was the gatekeeper staring at the beauty of Ser Vria’s eldrani heritage? The pure orange in her hair? Or was he perhaps wondering about the wicked scar across the dark skin of Ser Temat’s neck?

  Or was it worse than either?

  Were they considering denying Aefric entrance?

  “Is there some problem with your gate?” Ser Vria asked. “That you must keep your rightful overlord waiting in this fashion?”

  “I have no standing orders about the unannounced arrival of his grace,” the gatekeeper called back. “I have sent a runner for instructions.”

  “How can there be any question in this matter?” Ser Vria asked, now letting impatience show through in her voice. “Count Ferrin Ol’Nylla rules here, yes, but he rules in the names of Duke Aefric Brightstaff and King Colm Stronghand. One of whom is being kept waiting, even as I speak.”

  “And I do apologize for that wait,” the gatekeeper called down. “But this is not my decision to make.”

  “Refusal could be taken as an act of insurrection by your count,” Ser Vria said sharply. “I ask again. How can there be any question of admitting his grace?”

  “I’m sure it won’t come to that,” the gatekeeper said. “But I have been given instructions that today I may only admit those whose names are on a list in my possession. His grace’s name is not on that list.”

  “An obvious oversight,” Ser Vria said. “And the sun is setting. If it sets fully without his grace being offered proper hospitality, the consequences for your master could be profoundly unfortunate.”