Or could it have been an attempt to lull Aefric into a sense of complacency, where Quintabis was concerned?

  No way to tell, just now.

  Brightstaff in hand, Aefric made his way back toward his horse, while Princess Sorcha’s procession turned about and made their way back to the granite road and from there, presumably, the Kingsroad.

  Aefric’s knights and soldiers stared at him with a variety of expressions. Some awed, some concerned, others, well, Aefric could not be sure, at a glance.

  Sometime during his conversation with the princess, though, the crowd of common folk had dispersed. Perhaps disappointed at the lack of a show. They’d gone back to either their work — hammers, saws, and orders rang out in the background — or their revelry. Aefric could hear their music and laughter in the distance, too.

  The noise was a good thing though. Allowed Aefric to speak freely before he even reached his horse.

  “I find myself wondering,” he said, “just how a Kefthali princess, along with her wizard and company of forty knights, made it this deep into my duchy without my knowing about them.”

  “We’ve been discussing that very question, your grace,” Beornric said, while the Knights of the Lake all nodded. “And with permission, I’ll set about getting some answers as soon as we’re settled in the tower.”

  “You have it,” Aefric said as he mounted up and slid the Brightstaff back into its sling. “I want those answers as soon as I can get them. And while you’re at it, send warning to everyone nearby to watch for them. I want to know what routes they choose, if they stay ahorse or take a boat.”

  He snapped his fingers for emphasis. “If they turn south and ride straight into the skies, I want to know how fast they fly. Understood?”

  Beornric and the other knights all clapped their hilts in acknowledgment.

  “Also,” Aefric continued, “no one is to engage them, unless the Kefthali give reason.” He shook his head. “I don’t think they will. I think they intend to leave peacefully this time. And I don’t want any of my people getting jumpy and committing an act of war.”

  “Yes, your grace,” Beornric said, and offered back the wand Garram.

  “All right,” Aefric said. He sheathed his wand, then reached down and soothed his horse, which had begun snorting in time to Aefric’s complaints. No reason for the poor animal to fret over its rider’s worries. “I think we’re ready then.”

  Beornric cleared his throat.

  “There is one more point I must raise, your grace,” he said. “I don’t believe I have to mention just how risky getting into that carriage was. Nor enumerate the number of things that could have gone wrong.”

  “You’re right,” Aefric said, quirking a smile he didn’t really feel. “You don’t.”

  He snapped his reins, and led the way back toward his place in the cavalcade, which was clearly ready now to enter the courtyard of Herewyn’s tower keep here at Asarchai.

  About time, too.

  “May I ask what her highness wanted to talk about?” Beornric said, as they rode.

  “Well, she offered to give me a guided tour of Kefthal.”

  “Over my dead body!”

  All around them, the Knights of the Lake slapped their hilts in agreement.

  Aefric chuckled. “But she felt that might not be well received. So although that offer stands, she also asked permission to send me a gift.”

  “You refused, of course,” Beornric said, scowling as though he already knew differently.

  “She gave her oath first that this gift would present no threat to me, nor to my lands or people.”

  “You’d take her oath?”

  “She swore on the Nine,” Aefric said, shrugging one shoulder. “I figured that if any oath held meaning for her, it would be that one.”

  “And did you ask what she considered a threat?”

  “I…” Aefric frowned.

  “I thought as much,” Beornric said, and grimaced. “Your grace, in politics, viewpoint is everything. It is not enough to say something is not a threat, if both sides do not first agree what defines a threat.”

  Aefric sighed.

  “Alas, I am not finished, your grace,” Beornric said.

  “What else did I miss?” Aefric asked, feeling chagrined now.

  “Did your grace specify that the gift must be something legal to possess in Armyr?”

  “That goes without saying, doesn’t it?”

  “Among most kingdoms, of course,” Beornric said. “But we speak of a princess from Kefthal. She might consider a company of skeletal troops a perfectly reasonable gift. And since they would be under your grace’s command, she would not consider them presenting a threat to your grace, his lands, or his people.”

  Aefric winced. “She wouldn’t.”

  “I would remind your grace that Duchess Ashling gave you a thank-you gift of warships. Gifts of strategic value are not uncommon among nobles.”

  “That gift also included a castle,” Aefric said, then realized what he’d just said. “But surely … this Princess Sorcha … wouldn’t…”

  “Give your grace a gift that he must come to Kefthal to claim?” Beornric nodded his head back and forth. “It strikes me as a reasonable possibility.”

  Thirteen hells. Every time Aefric thought he was coming to understand what it meant to be a noble, some aspect or twist surfaced that he hadn’t seen coming.

  “And here I thought that I had to accept, because refusing the gift would be an insult. After all, we’re not at war.”

  “Your grace is correct,” Beornric said. “As we are not at war with Kefthal, refusing would have insulted them. But since the offended party would have been Kefthal, I think it’s safe to say that King Colm would have supported your decision.”

  “King Colm wasn’t there in the carriage.”

  Beornric straightened as though Aefric had slapped him.

  “Forgive me, your grace,” he said, managing a slight bow even as they trotted their horses. “I thought only of the gift, not of the circumstances. While your grace sat within that carriage, agreeing to accept the gift was the only reasonable course of action.”

  “Thank you,” Aefric said. “I was starting to feel a little foolish there.”

  “Your grace can always refuse the gift once it arrives.”

  “If the gift is illegal or otherwise inappropriate.”

  Beornric harrumphed as though he felt Aefric should refuse the gift no matter what — and perhaps he was right — but Aefric would have at least a few aetts to consider his options. Perhaps discuss them with his other advisers as well.

  Certainly his historian, Elkari Ol’Nuval, might be able to find precedents one way or the other, when it came to accepting gifts from nobles who represented undesirable alliances.

  They were almost back to their proper place in the cavalcade now, and Aefric pondered Princess Sorcha’s gift while he, Beornric, and the Knights of the Lake resumed their places.

  Up at the front, his trumpeter raised his instrument and blew the ducal fanfare. On the side streets, some of the common folk who heard the fanfare cheered, and came to watch Aefric’s formal arrival.

  The cavalcade began to move slowly toward the open granite gate, leading into the keep’s courtyard.

  “Even if she does intend to give me lands and a castle,” Aefric said, “perhaps accepting wouldn’t be the worst thing. I might be able to shine some light into their darkness.”

  “Perhaps,” Beornric said flatly. “Were your grace a mere adventurer. But can an Armyrian duke afford that investment of time and resources in another kingdom?”

  “No,” Aefric said with a sigh. “I suppose not.”

  “There’s another point your grace hasn’t considered,” Beornric said, tugging gently at his mustache.

  Aefric looked at his knight-adviser. Saw the meaning in his eyes.

  “No. Surely not.”

  “Surely so, your grace,” Beornric said with a nod that seemed to pronounce doom on Aefric. “A foreign power sent a princess to meet you, and offer a gift. I trust your grace knows by now what comes next.”

  “But the whole idea is ridiculous.”

  “It’s not ridiculous, your grace. It’s politics. What better way for Kefthal to expand its influence in this part of Qorunn than through marriage?”

  Rikas. Beautiful birds, with their bright red crests, but that wasn’t what made them valuable.

  No, they were smart enough to be trained, and strong enough fliers to cross even the Risen Sea. Which made them perfect for delivering messages.

  And Aefric must’ve spent more than an hour in the rookery of Herewyn’s tower keep that day, just sending rikas.

  First, he sent word about his encounter with Princess Sorcha to King Colm at Armityr, as well as his own general, Ser Yrsa, currently at Ajenmoor, Ser Grey, Aefric’s castellan at Behal, and Ser Garnotin, his castellan at Water’s End.

  Each of those four had to know that Aefric had met with a woman said to be Kefthal’s princess, that he’d declined a guided tour of her country, and that she would be sending him a gift.

  Oh, and all four needed to know that she was traveling with forty knights and a wizard.

  Not to mention that Aefric had no idea who might or might not’ve been in that second carriage. At the time, he’d assumed that carriage carried Princess Sorcha’s ladies in waiting. Or some Kefthali equivalent. But he really had no idea if that was true.

  And those carts. With most such companies, those carts would have carried supplies. Meaning, largely, food. But with a Kefthali company, what kind of supplies would they carry?

  Aefric did also mention that he’d warned her against any use of necromancy while within Armyr.

  Oh, yes. And that Beornric considered it likely that this was the first overture towards a possible marriage proposal.

  Gods above and below, Aefric hoped it was not. Hoped that Beornric was wrong this time. Even if Princess Sorcha were not of Kefthal, Aefric was not convinced she was … wholly human. That serpentine aspect. Those unblinking eyes. That veil, shielding her from sunlight.

  And living human skin simply did not come in that shade of white.

  Not that he could take time just then to contemplate the possibilities of what, exactly, Princess Sorcha was.

  Aefric had more rikas to send.

  His peers, Duke Wylyn Stormsent of Silverlake and Duchess Ashling Fyrenn of Merrek, needed to know that he’d received an envoy from Kefthal said to be a princess. That she’d come in peace, but come in force. That she’d arrived without warning.

  And most of all, that they might receive similar envoys.

  Duke Wylyn was long married, but one of his daughters was a widow. And Duchess Ashling was not yet married. If Kefthal wanted a marriage alliance in Armyr, they seemed as likely targets to Aefric as he was.

  While Aefric did all this, Beornric sent a second set of rikas, trying to find out how Kefthal managed to get so large — and potentially threatening — a company so deep within Deepwater without the duke receiving warning.

  Once those were flying, Beornric also sent word to every one of Aefric’s major vassals, as well as the mayors of his towns and cities along rivers and the Kingsroad, the captain of his fort in Kerrik Forest, the mayor of his port city of Ajenmoor, and finally to the castellan at his majesty’s closest watchtower, Towerkeep.

  In Aefric’s name, he ordered every one of them to keep an eye out for Princess Sorcha and her company. To watch her company should it draw near, but not to start trouble unless given cause.

  Well, Aefric could only recommend this course of action to Towerkeep. The castellan there answered directly to his majesty, not to the Duke of Deepwater.

  By the time all that was finished, Aefric only just had time before dinner to clean up a bit in the rooms provided for him on the top floor of the tower.

  His rooms were simple, as he expected from a vassal’s secondary keep. A sitting room, a bedroom, a bath, and a closet. None of them as large as he was used to, of course. But the furnishings were elegant and comfortable, and the windows along the curved outer wall large and paned with glass, with lovely views of the river, the Teryrnon Grand Theater, and the campgrounds beyond.

  There was no plastering or floorboards anywhere in the keep. At least, not that Aefric had seen so far. But then, the granite was so smooth and seamless, none was really needed. There were, though, sweet-smelling rugs woven from pale green rushes.

  The tapestries on the walls of Aefric’s rooms depicted the growing town of Asarchai, busy river traffic, and the construction of the Teryrnon Grand Theater.

  But the afternoon was growing late, and Aefric didn’t have time to linger over a view or a tapestry.

  In fact, he didn’t have time to linger over a bath, either. Even though he could sense Burrew’s magic woven through the large, copper tub, tying it into warming enchantments throughout the whole of the keep.

  Such a bath would get hot quickly, and probably stay hot as long as desired. Quite a luxury, after a sweaty day on horseback.

  Later for that, though.

  No, feeling the need to handle his ablutions quickly, Aefric cheated. He used a little cleanliness spell he’d developed back in the early days of his first apprenticeship, in service to Karbin.

  No matter how filthy Aefric’s duties might have left him, Karbin would not abide a dirty apprentice. So Aefric was forced to either spend half his waking hours washing, or figure out a magical shortcut.

  That was a long time ago.

  Now, he needed hardly the span of three breaths to pass his hands through the air above his naked body, channeling magic that left every inch of him clean and fresh when he was finished.

  Even his long, sandy blonde hair looked freshly brushed.

  Tempted as he was to do the same for his clothes, he knew better. If he started using magic to do the job a servant did, he would reduce the need for servants. And thus, the number of jobs available to his people.

  So he left his dusty riding clothes for the servants to launder, and wandered naked into his closet to consider his dinner wardrobe options.

  Fortunately, while Aefric had been writing messages, servants had unpacked the clothing from his luggage, leaving the rest intact.

  He settled on dark blue hose under a quilted, black silk tunic embroidered with silver. A soft, dark brown leather for his belt and his low shoes, with their turned-down collar.

  His silver-edged noble’s knife, the wand Garram, his belt pouch and the Brightstaff rounded out his outfit. Though he did also wear a ring given to him by Queen Eppida: woven from sixteen different shades of gold, it was anchored by a large emerald.

  He wore very little ornamentation for a duke, he knew, but during his adventuring days he’d never gotten into the habit of wearing jewelry that didn’t serve a magical purpose.

  Were he back at Water’s End, he would likely have let his valets hector him into wearing more. But here in Norra, he wouldn’t bother for anything short of a formal event.

  Dinner tonight, he’d been told, would not be formal. He could get away with just the ring.

  A quick final survey in the full-length mirror in the bedroom, and he was off to see about dinner.

  Outside Aefric’s rooms, he was met not by four soldiers of his personal guard — as he’d expected — but by two Knights of the Lake.

  The first was Ser Leppina, with her tanned skin, her strong build, and her single braid of dark brown hair that reached nearly to her hips. Aefric had been told she only cut her hair when she was defeated in single combat.

  The other knight was sea-toughened Ser Micham, with his brown hair and beard both trimmed to the latest fashions, even though this kept the half-ear he’d lost to a borog’s spear plain for all to see.

  They were accompanied by a young page in pale blue livery who seemed to be jittering with excitement.

  “Your grace!” he said, bowing so low Aefric half-expected the lad to take a knee. “I have the honor of escorting your grace to dinner.”

  He straightened up. Pointed the way down the hall away from the stairs Aefric had come up.

  “If your grace would be so kind as to follow me this way.”

  “A moment,” Aefric said, then, quieter, to his knights, he said, “So much for Beornric giving my Knights of the Lake a break from guard duty for the Feast, eh?”

  “We requested resumption of the duty, your grace,” Leppina said, “one and all.”

  “If Kefthal thinks to threaten our duke,” Micham said, “we’ll have something to say about it.”

  “You expect to see them again then?” Aefric asked.

  “Distraction is an old tool in warfare,” Leppina said. “Draw your opponent’s attention to the east, then strike from the west.”

  “Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that,” Aefric said, then turned to the page. “All right. Lead on.”

  “Yes, your grace,” the page said, and his voice cracked on the words. Poor lad. He was of that age when his voice likely broke often, and a great deal of growth would follow. “This way, your grace.”

  Aefric repressed a smile at the lad’s enthusiasm, but it wasn’t easy. The page led them down the smooth hallway, warmly lit as it was by pillar candles along the walls, surrounded by curves of polished bronze. The lit candles smelled of beeswax.

  The page led Aefric up a flight of stairs to the roof of the tower.

  In the west, the sun was beginning to set above the sharp cliffs that separated Norra from Felspark. The air was warm, and pregnant with anticipation for the feast to come.

  And the scents of dinner were savory. Aefric couldn’t tell exactly what he was smelling, but there were pungent spices, and his mouth watered and stomach rumbled in anticipation.

  The tower was as wide at the top as it was at the bottom. At least a hundred feet across. Wide enough that the four catapults — currently at the cardinal corners, but on wheels in case they needed to be moved — looked almost like decoration, rather than dominating the scene.

  Aefric noted chainmail-clad soldiers manning those catapults as well as patrolling the crenellated edges. Likely also a response to the sudden appearance of Kefthal.