In the center of the tower’s top, though, an island of calm. A raised platform, perhaps dozen strides wide, where dinner was to be held.

  Along the edges of the platform, servants waited at stations where each course either stood ready or was being prepared.

  In the center, a small, round table, under a pale blue cloth. Four chairs, three of whose occupants stood waiting beside those chairs.

  Chief among these, of course, was the baroness herself. Herewyn had brushed out her shimmering red hair, and let it fall, fanning out behind her and standing a sharp contrast to her pale green, velvet gown. A sapphire dangled at the end of a gold chain around her neck, teasing along her low neckline, and a simple gold diadem crowned her.

  Herewyn looked regal, standing there with the sun at her back, and the smile she gave Aefric was both proud and pleased.

  To Herewyn’s left stood Sighild. She, too, had brushed out her hair. But rather than having it fan out behind her, she draped some of it forward over her bare shoulders, where it combined with the pale peach color of her silk corset and skirts — so close to her own skin tone — to call to mind the first time Aefric had seen her unclothed.

  She’d been standing near the door to his bedroom at Water’s End. The servants had just left the room. Aefric himself had been clad in only a dressing gown, following a bath, when she’d walked into the room, undid the two ties on her simple gown, and let her outfit drop to pool on the floorboards at her feet.

  And standing there on the dais, in the late afternoon sunlight, Sighild gave Aefric a smile that let him know her dress and hair had been arranged exactly to call that memory to his mind.

  To Herewyn’s right stood a man Aefric hadn’t met. Perhaps a handful of years older than the baroness, he had the pale skin of a noble, with a jet black mustache and beard combination that Keifer would have called a Van Dyke. His hair was curly, and hung just shy of his collar.

  And the man wore a wide collar, the yellow-white shade of aged parchment, like the shirt that bloused out under his black velvet doublet. His hose were matching black, and though the women had come unarmed to the dinner table, he wore a longsword at his hip. He wore a single gold ring, with a large diamond, on the index finger of his right hand.

  Aefric mounted the stairs to the dais. He acknowledged the bows of the other three diners with a nod, and sat, allowing them to sit as well.

  They didn’t.

  Instead, Herewyn rounded the table and stood beside Aefric, who was caught between standing again and turning his chair to face her.

  He turned his chair, figuring that a duke shouldn’t stand immediately after being seated. Not for anything less than royalty.

  Herewyn seemed to expect this. Or at least, she gave no sign that she expected Aefric to do anything else.

  “Your grace,” she said, “I know I said that this dinner would be informal. And I devoutly hope your grace will allow it to be. But there is one detail of business that tradition requires of me before informality is an option.”

  Suspecting he knew what this business was, Aefric nodded.

  Herewyn looked deeply into Aefric’s eyes, and knelt smoothly at his feet. She offered her hand, as vassal to liege, and he kissed it, showing he was pleased with her. She pressed her forehead briefly to his knuckles, to emphasize her loyalty, before releasing his hand.

  “My liege,” she said warmly, “this keep is yours, as indeed is all of Asarchai and Norra beyond.”

  Yes. The same little ritual she’d performed at Norrtarr the night before. Technically, all of his vassals were to do something like this when he stayed at their keeps, but Herewyn always seemed to get a little more out of it.

  “Thank you, my baroness, my faithful and trusted vassal,” Aefric said. “And know that all of Deepwater values the work you do here.”

  Aefric held out his hand to her. Herewyn didn’t need it, to rise. He knew that. But offering his hand felt polite, and he liked the small smile she gave him as she took it.

  He felt no pull on his grip at all as she rose smoothly to her feet. She took off the diadem, and without looking offered it to a servant who stepped up to take it.

  She shook out her hair, not that it needed it.

  She took her seat then, and Sighild and the nobleman sat down with her.

  “Your grace,” Herewyn said, still smiling, “may I present my cousin, Ler Gwalter Ol’Norette.”

  “Your grace,” Gwalter said, bowing in his seat. “I have heard a good deal about Deepwater’s new duke, and all of it good.”

  “Then I suspect at least some of it has been lies,” Aefric said with a smile. “But please, if this is to be an informal dinner, let us dispense with titles and courtesies for the evening.”

  “Thank you, Aefric,” Herewyn said, while Gwalter looked at Aefric as though reassessing him.

  Servants brought the palate wine then. A small glass — hardly more than a swallow — of gentle white wine intended to symbolically wash away the cares of the day while preparing the taste buds for dinner.

  The palate wine was drunk in contemplative silence — the Norra way — and then the first course of the meal. A salad of crisp mixed greens and seasoned root vegetables, topped with a just a hint of oil, to bring out all the natural flavors.

  To drink with the salad, a type of wine called sharabi. Sharabi could come in a variety of shades as well as flavors, and this sharabi was pale green, light, and had an undertaste that made Aefric think of walnuts.

  This was the beginning of a marvelous dinner. A main course of seasoned river trout that was thick as a steak, but so light and buttery that it seemed to melt in Aefric’s mouth. It was served with a mix of roasted corn and tara, and honeyed oat bread so fresh its smell alone seemed to relax a part of Aefric that had been tense since he first heard that strange fanfare only a few hours prior.

  And the conversation was as good as the meal.

  Aefric told some of the lighter stories from his adventuring days. Such as the one about Denevon, the skald he knew who’d stopped two men from dueling to the death over water rights by seducing them both. Then the next morning, convincing them to get married instead of dueling. Happy endings all around.

  Sighild told stories about amusing misunderstandings and errant love letters among the minor nobles at the royal court in Armityr.

  Herewyn told stories of strange things said to have happened in Kerrik Forest. Of trees that sang when the light hit them just so, and rabbits who could grant wishes, when saved from a snare.

  Best of these, in Aefric’s mind, was the farmer whose farm had failed, sending him far east and into the woods to trap dinner for his table.

  Well, the farmer’s best efforts had yielded only the one rabbit. Hardly enough for himself, let alone his family. But he took out his knife and prepared to make do when the rabbit had shocked him by speaking the common tongue.

  “Wait!” the rabbit cried, and told the tale of his magic, and how he could grant the farmer a single wish, if only the farmer would release him.

  Well, the farmer had never heard of a talking rabbit, so he agreed. And the wish he spoke was this: “Let the ground yield its riches for me once more, beyond any it ever gave up for even my forefathers.”

  The rabbit promised that it would be so, and the farmer released him.

  The farmer went home to dig, and test the land. But when he dug, he struck pure, strong marble.

  The farmer would become a rich man, and Norra would become famous for its twin quarries: granite and marble.

  Gwalter contributed little to the conversation that night. He seemed overwhelmed to be at an informal dinner with his duke, and opted to listen instead of speaking.

  But at least the man was an appreciative audience. He listened attentively, laughed when appropriate, and seemed to hang on every story. Even the ones he’d doubtless heard before.

  Overall, just the kind of dinner Aefric needed after a trying afternoon.

  After a full and satisfying dinner — both socially and gustatorily — Aefric retired to his chambers for the evening, where two soldiers of Aefric’s personal guard already stood watch.

  “All clear,” one of them — Tora, if Aefric recalled correctly — said to the knights.

  With his knights on a higher level of alert now, Leppina checked his rooms while Micham remained with Aefric and the two soldiers in the hall, before returning to say that all was well.

  Aefric, who felt he’d shown great patience in tolerating the delay, said, “Was that necessary?”

  “It was, your grace,” Leppina said with a single nod. “Ser Beornric said we were to take no chances. That we could not be sure of Kefthal’s goals or capabilities.”

  “Or, for that matter,” Micham said, “that Motte will…” He turned to Leppina. “How did Beornric phrase it?”

  “Ah, ‘that Motte will behave himself,’ I believe.”

  “Yes,” Micham said. “That was it. While our captain did not wish to level any accusations against your grace’s … most recalcitrant vassal, neither did he feel we should assume that said vassal would behave … appropriately.”

  “I believe,” Leppina said, “he still harbors a grudge against Count Ferrin for trying to goad your grace into battle before even officially taking up your grace’s ducal seat at Water’s End.”

  Aefric looked from one knight to the other and back.

  “You two want to stand guard inside the sitting room, don’t you.” He didn’t make it a question.

  Leppina and Micham glanced at each other. Micham gave her a slight nod.

  “That might be preferable, your grace,” Leppina said. “Under the circumstances.”

  “And we have Tora and Ander, here, to handle door duty,” Micham added.

  “Fine,” Aefric said. “Just don’t kill anyone without permission.”

  “Of course, your grace,” Leppina said lightly.

  “Wouldn’t dream of it, your grace,” Micham said, in the same tone.

  The knights followed Aefric inside.

  The chamber servants were already finished and gone, though they’d left Aefric a full, steaming tub of water in the bath.

  Oh, but that was a good idea. A good soak sounded like just the way to end his day, and even from the bedroom, he could smell fragrant wisteria, added to the bathwater.

  Without delay, Aefric stripped down, left the Brightstaff standing beside his bed, and strode into his bath chamber.

  Fluffy white towels had been stacked on a shelf beside the steaming copper tub. Beside them, a thick, heavy bar of soap that looked to have herbs mixed inside it. On a peg hung a sheer white linen dressing gown, and a heavier, navy blue robe.

  Sinking down into that hot, welcoming tub was pure delight. And yet, Aefric had to laugh at himself.

  He’d been getting spoiled by life at Water’s End.

  This copper tub was not only long enough that Aefric could lie down in it completely, should he choose to, but it was wide enough that he didn’t feel hemmed in on the sides.

  The kind of tub he’d yearned for on cold, rainy nights when he’d been slogging through mud during his adventuring days, or during the wars.

  And yet, now this tub felt small to him. Quaint, beside the gigantic marble tub he had at Water’s End. Where he also had a commanding view of Lake Deepwater, and beyond.

  Whereas here, in this tub, he had only a series of gentle landscape paintings for his view.

  He enjoyed his bath all the same, of course. Scrubbing tired muscles in water just this side of too-hot was always a pleasure. As was just sitting, and soaking, and relaxing away some of the cares of his day.

  The enchantments Burrew had lain on the tub did their work well. Aefric soaked in that tub for quite some time, and yet the heat never diminished.

  Aefric’s fingers were beginning to prune when he decided to do one last thing before getting out.

  He cast a spell that would carry his words directly to his intended listener, and allow her to respond in kind.

  On the one hand, a marvelously efficient form of communication. But its limitations kept him from using it often.

  First, he could never be sure what the recipient would be doing when contact was made. Potentially dangerous, if distraction came at the wrong time. Or at the very least, inconvenient.

  Second, the message would not be repeated. So if it came in and the listener needed a moment before she could pay attention, critical words might be lost.

  Third, no record of the message would exist. So the spell couldn’t be used for anything official.

  And those were only the top three of the limitations inherent to the magic.

  But it had its time and its place. And right now, Aefric needed to reach out to Byrhta. To let her know he’d heard about her father, and that he was thinking of her.

  Yes, he’d sent a rika. But the rika would need time to reach Castle Vabarett. Perhaps a full day. Byrhta deserved more consideration than that.

  So he cast the fifty-word version of this spell, and spoke to her from the tub.

  “My dear Byrhta. I only just heard tell of your father’s failing health. Please convey him my best wishes. Know that I miss you sorely, and lament that you cannot join me at the Feast of Dereth Sehk. I yearn to see you soon. You may reply with fifty words.”

  Whatever Byrhta was doing when Aefric’s words reached her, it could not have been important. Her reply came right away.

  “Oh, my sweetest Aefric, always do I long to hear your voice. But I’ve had no recent news of Father’s health, and am not in Goldenfall. I wondered that neither Vercy nor I were invited to the Feast. Now I understand. Once more, beloved, others conspire to keep us apart.”

  Unfair, that so beautiful a voice should be bringing Aefric such infuriating news.

  Aefric was tempted to simply gather his people and leave. Perhaps ride for Riverbreak instead, and visit both Byrhta and Vercy.

  No. That was thinking like an adventurer, not a duke. Aefric had already come all this way from Water’s End. He owed it to the people of Norra to stay, and attend the celebration of their ancestors’ victory over the forces of that evil derekek emperor.

  But their baroness could still be made to answer for this.

  Aefric was so angry that the Brightstaff flew in from the bedroom to stand ready beside him while he toweled himself dry and donned the navy blue robe that had been left for him.

  The Brightstaff followed at his heels as he strode purposefully into the sitting room of his chambers, where Leppina and Micham stood guard, inside the door to the hallway.

  “Send for the baroness,” Aefric said. “I want her at once. And when she comes, you two wait in the hall until I tell you otherwise. What I have to say to her isn’t for others’ ears.”

  “Your grace,” Leppina began, hesitantly.

  “We are on the fourth floor of a tower, guarded by soldiers above and below,” Aefric said impatiently. “Any threat that reaches me here will be magical, not military, and I should be able to handle it.”

  Leppina and Micham looked at each other, uncertain.

  Aefric blew out a harsh breath.

  “I am quite fond of all my Knights of the Lake,” he said, his tone low and dangerous. “And so I afford you all more leeway than perhaps I ought. But just in case I have not made myself clear. This is not a request.”

  “Yes, your grace,” both Micham and Leppina said at once, and bowed, before leaving the room to carry out his orders.

  Aefric paced as he waited.

  Aefric was not kept waiting long. He’d only paced perhaps a dozen circuits of the smallish, candlelit sitting room when there was a soft knock at the hallway door.

  “Yes,” Aefric said.

  Leppina opened the door and leaned in. “Your grace, Baroness Herewyn arrives in response to your summons.”

  “Send her in,” Aefric said.

  Herewyn came in smiling. Her tresses down and flowing freely past her shoulders. She was clad in what looked like gauzy white linen under a thick, gray robe that she made little effort to hold closed, as she entered.

  “Your grace,” she said warmly, with a small bow. “I am both pleased and honored to be…”

  Her words faltered, and her expression clouded as she took Aefric’s posture, and the anger in his eyes.

  “Have I somehow given offense, your grace?” she asked carefully. “For I begin to suspect I have not been summoned for the noble privilege.”

  Aefric pointed to an armchair at one end of the coffee table, under the large, curved window. Out beyond was the starry night sky, and an excellent view of the countless campfires and cookfires in the campgrounds, as well as the lights of a town beginning its celebration a little early.

  Aefric took the seat facing her. The other armchair, on the other side of the table, leaving empty the small couch that faced the window.

  The Brightstaff stood beside him. Waiting.

  “Your grace,” Herewyn said softly, “I am frightened. Please tell me how I have given offense so that I may make restitution and, gods willing, restore myself to your good graces.”

  “Byrhta Ol’Caran is not in Goldenfall.”

  “I’m … afraid I don’t understand.”

  To her credit, she did look puzzled. But then, Aefric was coming to understand that nobles had to be skilled and accomplished liars.

  “Your lordship” — Herewyn’s eyes widened to hear Aefric speak so formally — “knows that I am a magic-user. Surely she must know that I have means of communication a great deal faster and more reliable than rikas and messengers. When I wish to employ them.”

  “I know that your grace’s powers are many,” Herewyn said, “but I do not pretend to know their full scope, nor their limits. If your grace tells me he has this power, I am confident that he has it.”

  “I possess a spell,” Aefric said then, “that allows for a brief exchange of words with someone I know well. I cast that spell tonight that I might tell Byrhta of my good wishes for her father’s health, offer my assistance, if needed, and make clear my desire to see her again soon.”