Two enclosed carriages, made from ebony, but trimmed in gold and silver. Six enclosed wagons, made from a cheaper form of blackwood.

  All eight drivers were dressed head to toe in black … cotton, from the look of it. Cowls pulled down low, hiding their faces.

  Their horses were impressive. Huge things that made the Keifer part of Aefric think of beer commercials. Though the Aefric part of him had seen such creatures ridden by some of the larger human warriors he’d known over the years.

  Odd, though, that these supposedly Kefthali used such beasts both as warhorses and draft horses.

  One rider stood out in the sea of black armor. A bald man in bloodred robes, embroidered with gold thread. His skin was bone white. Chalky. Lacking any hair at all, even eyebrows. And he smiled with too many teeth.

  He wore two wands at his belt, and a greenwood staff rode in a sling beside his saddle, similar to the way Aefric carried the Brightstaff even now.

  This bald man had the feel of a powerful wizard, holding his magic well in check. Interesting.

  Aefric and his company stopped a reasonable distance back from the Kefthalis. Aefric’s own soldiers stood nearby watching curiously, though holding ranks.

  Less organized were a growing number of equally curious locals, who’d stopped their preparations and diversions to see what was unfolding.

  Though at least the locals had the sense to stay well back. Perhaps, on some level, they too could feel the threat of that whisper of necromancy?

  Beornric began the introductions.

  “I have the honor to present his grace, Ser Aefric Brightstaff. Duke of Deepwater, Baron of Netar, Hero of the Battle of Deepwater, and Hero of the Battle of Frozen Ridge.”

  The full introduction raised a small swell of guilt in Aefric. He’d been given the barony of Netar aetts ago, but he’d yet to visit it…

  The bald wizard’s smile actually widened, displaying even more teeth. And every one of those teeth were the same shade as his skin.

  Aefric had faced many disturbing things during his adventuring days. A series of shadows that twisted into oddly angled creatures that spoke only in creaking sounds. A tomb’s echo that returned five times to pummel his party’s warrior with sound. A glowing fungus that gathered together along a cavern wall and formed a giant spider that sprayed spores instead of webs. And that was only naming a few.

  Still, he found the sight of this bald wizard disquieting.

  “On behalf of my lady, I greet your grace,” the bald wizard said in a voice so oily it could have kept every wheel of those carriages and carts greased across a thousand miles of dry salt flats.

  “I am Quintabis,” he continued, “chief adviser to her highness, Princess Sorcha Diadiniu of Kefthal. Will your grace be so kind as to join my lady in her carriage, for a word?”

  “In her carriage,” Beornric growled to Aefric. “Don’t do this.”

  “I wouldn’t refuse to meet a princess of Rethneryl this way,” Aefric said softly.

  “Rethneryl is our ally.”

  “I wouldn’t refuse to meet a princess from Hatay or Shachan this way either.”

  “Is there a problem, your grace?’ Quintabis asked.

  “No problem,” Aefric said, dismounting and drawing the Brightstaff from its sling.

  Quintabis raised a hand in what almost looked like a halting gesture, except that it lacked commitment.

  “Please, your grace,” Quintabis said, bowing slightly in his saddle. “We present no threat. Surely, there is no need for your grace to carry with him … such a weapon … for nothing more than an exchange of a few spoken words?”

  “Do you know me by reputation, Quintabis?” Aefric asked.

  “Of the reputation of the current duke of Deepwater, I have heard whispers now and again.”

  “And of the adventurer, Aefric Brightstaff?”

  “Of him,” Quintabis said with another of those too-wide smiles, “I have heard a great deal though the years.”

  “Then certainly you have heard that where I go, the Brightstaff goes.”

  Quintabis bowed, even ducking his head in the process. When he came back up from his bow, he said, “And yet, never before as adventurer or duke has Aefric Brightstaff taken audience with a member of the royal house of Kefthal.”

  “I have carried the Brightstaff into the presence of kings and queens alike. To yield it here could be construed as placing your princess above them all. Including my own king.”

  “Or, perhaps,” Quintabis said — though how he spoke clearly through that smile, Aefric couldn’t guess — “it could be taken as a gesture of diplomatic goodwill, and a sign that your grace’s intentions towards us are as peaceful as our own intentions towards your grace.”

  There were many things Aefric considered pointing out then. Kefthal’s reputation. The whiff of necromancy in the air. The fact that he would be beyond the reach of his knights and immediate help, inside that carriage.

  Instead, Aefric said simply, “The Brightstaff goes everywhere with me. If it is not allowed in that carriage, neither am I. Please tell your princess I shall be happy to meet with her another time.”

  He started to turn away. The watching crowd sizzled with sudden, hushed conversation.

  “Wait!” Quintabis called. “Please! Your grace!”

  Aefric turned back.

  “Her highness informs me that your terms are acceptable.”

  “Very well, then,” Aefric said, stepping forward.

  Quintabis once more raised his hand in that weakly halting gesture.

  “Forgive me, your grace. This is a small thing, beside the Brightstaff, and yet, I cannot help but note the wand your grace carries at his belt. Unless I am very much mistaken, it is the wand Garram?”

  “It is,” Aefric said, surprised and more than a little impressed that Quintabis could name that wand, even while it sat in a sheath at Aefric’s belt.

  Of course, after Frozen Ridge, word would have gotten around that he wielded the wand Garram. So Quintabis might only have been making a reasonable assumption.

  “Your grace’s signature tool of the Art is one matter,” Quintabis said. “And her highness has proven most understanding in permitting your grace to carry it into her presence. However, I must … raise objection to your grace carrying a secondary weapon, especially one of … such power and repute.”

  Beornric started to say something, but Aefric shook his head. He drew Garram from its sheath and floated it through the air back to Beornric, for safe keeping.

  Aefric noted, though, the hungry way Quintabis watched the wand as it moved.

  Once this was done, Quintabis gave Aefric an exaggerated bow, and swept his arm out, inviting Aefric to enter the carriage. Aefric noticed that the man’s fingernails looked long, and sharp.

  Aefric walked across the cobbles. Mouth dry, and heart pounding with concern that he was making a grave mistake.

  None of those knights in enameled black plate armor turned as Aefric walked past them. In fact, they remained impressively still. The only signs of life came from their mounts, which Aefric could see breathing and looking about. Snorting every so often.

  That at least suggested that those knights were alive. Living horses generally didn’t do well around the undead.

  Also, Aefric understood now why he’d had trouble spotting the heraldry of their banners — they weren’t carrying any. No pennants. No banners. No flying colors of any kind.

  Quintabis continued giving Aefric that too-wide smile. And Aefric was close enough now to see that the bald wizard’s eyes were the color of raw venison.

  Tension knotted Aefric’s shoulders, and roiled in his empty belly. He had to work his jaw a little, to loosen it. He felt surrounded by enemies. Turning about and flying to the keep sounded like the sanest course of action.

  For the sake of all the gods, these people were from Kefthal! Did he really owe them the same level of diplomatic respect he’d give the princess from some more reasonable kingdom?

  But he pressed on all the same. Step by step across the cobblestones, closing the distance. And all the while, he kept spells ready at his fingertips.

  Just in case.

  As he neared the ebony carriage, with its gold and silver trim, he noted the device emblazoned on its door. A circle of nine white skulls, facing the viewer, on a black background.

  So they weren’t traveling completely bereft of acknowledgments of who they were…

  The carriage door opened for him.

  Between Aefric and the inside was a veil of darkness. Magical, of course, and it felt like part of the carriage, rather than a specific spell. Either way, he couldn’t see in, and he wondered if anyone inside could see out.

  A quick moment’s probing, though, proved that the veil was just a veil. No hidden secondary effects.

  “Your grace’s safety is, of course, guaranteed,” Quintabis said from behind in. “In case such words need be said aloud.”

  Why didn’t that feel reassuring?

  Well, Aefric had come this far…

  He drew a deep breath, forced his forehead muscles to relax, and stepped through the veil.

  Gentle light within. Magical. Displaying a carriage interior that stood a sharp contrast to what he’d seen so far.

  Rich purple silks. Thickly padded bench seats. And two occupants.

  The first had to be the princess herself. A woman who looked to be no older than Aefric — though he could tell she was a magic-user of some power, which meant she might be considerably older than she looked.

  Either way, she presented herself well. High cheekbones, and small, pointed chin. Long black hair that rode down over one bare shoulder, bound by gold rings. Eyes that were a bright shade of purple, and smiled as Aefric took in the sight of her.

  She had a long, slender throat, decorated with a velvet choker and an eye-catching cameo depicting a broadly spreading ash tree. Below that, an ornate, bejeweled gown of dark, bloodred silk, cradling a shapely body, and cut just low enough to show an impressive amount of décolletage.

  She might even have been beautiful. Save for three things. Her skin was the same, eerie shade of bone white as Quintabis’. The smile in her purple eyes had a serpentine quality. And the sense of her magic carried the taint of necromancy.

  The carriage’s other occupant sat on her other bare shoulder. A familiar by the feel of it. A raven which watched Aefric avidly as he entered and took his seat, facing Princess Sorcha.

  “I’m afraid, your highness,” Aefric said, “that I don’t know the customs of Kefthal. Is it expected that I bow?”

  “Oh, no,” she said, her pale lips smiling in a way that echoed that serpentine aspect in her eyes. “Not in your case, your grace. We of Kefthal expect deference only from those we consider our inferiors. And that list does not include your grace, whose reputation precedes him.”

  She said that last part while shaking her head just slightly. Rhythmically.

  Her voice was soft. Gentle, almost. And Aefric didn’t believe that for a moment.

  “Your highness has me at a disadvantage then,” Aefric said. “For I must admit that I did not know Kefthal had any princesses at all, much less one named Sorcha Diadiniu.”

  “At a disadvantage, yes,” she said, and her smile quirked up slightly to one side. “But not one I seek to exploit.”

  Aefric expected her to go on from there, but she seemed content merely to stare at him.

  And she never seemed to blink.

  “Your highness wished a word with me?” he asked.

  “A word,” she said. “Yes.”

  “A word!” her raven said. “A word!”

  “Hush, Mizirian,” she said, never looking away from Aefric. “Kefthal is loved by few, but misunderstood by many. I would invite your grace for a private tour of Kefthal, that he might learn the truth for himself.”

  “That is … quite an invitation,” Aefric said, unable to believe what he’d just heard. Invited? To tour Kefthal? Obviously they would only show him what they wanted him to see—

  “Yes,” Princess Sorcha said. “And your grace may consider that invitation to stand, even though I do not believe he would accept.”

  She raised a hand before Aefric could speak.

  “Or, rather,” she continued, “let us say that I do not believe King Colm Stronghand would allow his greatest vassal to visit Kefthal without an army opening the way.”

  “Your highness has something else in mind then?”

  “Yes. Something else.” She smiled again, and Aefric half expected her to hiss like a snake. “I wish permission to give your grace a gift.”

  “A gift?”

  “A gift. From the princess of Kefthal to the duke of Deepwater. A gesture of … friendship and goodwill.”

  “What sort of gift?”

  “That would spoil the surprise, your grace.” Her smile widened, but not yet enough to show teeth. “But I shall swear by the Nine that this gift shall present no threat to your grace, nor to your lands or people.”

  “If that’s true, why do you need permission?”

  “Reputation,” she said, and it came out almost a whisper. “An unexpected gift arriving from Kefthal might … provoke a reaction that could endanger the gift. Thus, I come to your grace first, seeking permission.”

  She had a point. Aefric could just imagine the responses of Yrsa and Beornric. They’d likely set fire to the gift without opening it. Or something equally destructive.

  Still. Aefric wanted her to repeat her promise that this “gift” wouldn’t present a threat. But she’d sworn by the Nine, and that sounded like the kind of oath she’d be expected to keep.

  So asking her to repeat it could well be offering a dire insult.

  “Was I mistaken?” Princess Sorcha asked.

  “No,” Aefric said. “My advisers would likely see it destroyed unopened.”

  “Your grace’s advisers, but not your grace?”

  “Let’s just say I would approach it with extreme caution.”

  “Caution!” Mizirian croaked. “Caution!”

  “A worthy answer,” Princess Sorcha said with a slight nod. “May I then have permission to give your grace the gift I have in mind?”

  Aefric swallowed. “I am pleased to grant this permission to your highness.”

  “Thank you, your grace,” she said. “I shall see it to your grace’s hands soon. Certainly before the Autumn Harvest Festival.”

  That could be anytime in the next six aetts, plus a few days.

  “Then in advance, I thank you,” Aefric said, fighting down the urge to bow.

  “And now,” she said, “I and mine shall take our leave.”

  “You don’t intend to stay for the Feast of Dereth Sehk?”

  “It is too soon for such a thing,” she said. “My presence … would cause disturbance. Perhaps even trouble.”

  She shook her head in that slow, rhythmic way again.

  “I do not wish that,” she continued. “Better that I leave.”

  “A thoughtful choice, and one I will not forget,” Aefric said. “May your journey home be smooth and swift.”

  “Thank you, your grace. Enjoy the Feast.”

  Aefric started to get up, but frowned and turned back.

  “I hesitate to mention this,” he said, “but feel it is my obligation, as duke.”

  “By all means, your grace. Speak this obligation.”

  “I am obligated to inform your highness that the art of necromancy is barred throughout Armyr by royal decree. And the corresponding punishment is not gentle.”

  Her smile stretched just a little. Still not quite enough to show teeth. “Then I shall ensure that I and mine cast no such spells, and partake in no such rites, while within Armyr’s borders.”

  “Thank you,” Aefric said, not feeling reassured in the least.

  “Your grace is kind to warn us.”

  As Aefric left the carriage he noticed that he could see out through that veil.

  Stepping out of Princess Sorcha’s carriage and back into the warm afternoon sunlight was like dunking into a welcoming hot bath after an evening traveling through freezing rain.

  It shouldn’t have felt that way. Not to such an extreme. The sense of necromancy inside that carriage must’ve been even stronger than Aefric had realized.

  Subtle work then, with a powerful mind behind it…

  Quintabis gave Aefric a deep bow and one more too-wide smile before saying in that unctuous voice of his, “Your grace is most kind to welcome us this way. Know that Kefthal shall not forget his kindness.”

  Something about the way Quintabis said, “welcome...”

  It dawned on Aefric then that the nearest border of his duchy was a good fifty miles away. The nearest border of Armyr, much, much farther.

  And yet this company of forty knights, a wizard, and a foreign princess had reached him without any advanced notice.

  A trickle of cold fear washed down Aefric’s back.

  How had they managed this? And just what else could Kefthal do?

  Quintabis must’ve seen the realization in Aefric’s eyes, because his too-wide smile stretched a little further, and he nodded his bone-white head just a little.

  Adventuring instincts flared. Made Aefric want to balance the scales a bit. A show of magic, perhaps. Some little reminder to Kefthal that Aefric Brightstaff was no one to trifle with.

  He bit that down. A display like that right now — or even words to the same effect — would show fear.

  And he had the feeling that showing fear to Kefthal was the worst possible mistake he could make.

  So Aefric forced a smile onto his face, and hoped it looked something like his normal smile. He touched the bill of his hat in a gesture that could have been construed as acknowledging what just passed between Quintabis and himself, or as a simple gesture of farewell.

  “Her highness has shown great kindness and consideration this day as well,” he said. And he let his tone carry two meanings as he finished, “Neither shall I forget that.”

  Quintabis bowed again, which — according to Princess Sorcha — meant that Quintabis considered himself Aefric’s inferior. Was that a simple fact about their relative social positions? Or was it a statement about Aefric’s presumed magical power?