"We'll come," Arcolin said. "But I don't know when-"

"Any time-give me a day's warning if you can." With a bow to Dorrin, he left.

"Come upstairs, Jandelir," Dorrin said. "The old duke's study's safe enough now." She led the way, and he followed up the broad stairs into a large room furnished with a few simple chairs and a plain table half-covered with neat stacks of scrolls and books. It didn't look the way he'd imagined an old family's study. "It was more impressive when I first saw it," Dorrin said. "But everything was full of traps. Here-have a seat. These chairs may be plain, but they're safe."

Arcolin stared at her. A thousand questions raced through his mind, along with a rush of fear; even when she seemed the old Dorrin, she wasn't. He cleared his throat and said the first ordinary thing that came to mind.

"I don't know anything about court ceremony. All I had to do was take and receive messages."

"You're still ahead of where I was," Dorrin said, chuckling. She had taken a chair across the table from him. "Remember how I avoided any contact with the court, lest I meet my relatives?" Arcolin nodded. "Then I had to come to the coronation and be confirmed there, as a duke no less. I knew nothing: the protocol, the people, the dress."

"I'm sure you did well," Arcolin said, still struggling with his mixture of relief in Stammel's recovery and fear of her power.

"Like a puppet," Dorrin said. "I wore what they told me, went where they told me, said what the others said. Falk's honor-it was terrifying at first, but then I realized more than half of them were scared of me. A Verrakai. Born magelord, using magery-they had to know that, just as I'd had the prince's permission to use it. And then the aftermath-" She explained about the attack she had foiled and the king's pardon. It did not make Arcolin any more comfortable. "It's better now," she said, "You've noticed my senior squire; he's the king's cousin. The king's pressured them to accept me, but most are still so formal. I've missed you, Jandelir. The way we could talk, back north or in camp. I have no one like that now."

"I've missed you and Cracolnya both-and at least I've still got Cracolnya. It's not good, your being so alone. Will you marry?"

"Marry! Falk's Oath, no! Why would I? I'm too old to bear a child, and don't want to anyway. Ganarrion-distant cousin, cleared of treason and now back with the Royal Guard-will be my heir. I don't want more complications, but I'd like someone-someone I can trust absolutely, who was never under Verrakai control-just to talk with. My people are improving, but they were ruled by blood magic for years. I have Selfer and my squires, but..."

"And I wanted to talk to you about that," Arcolin said. "Selfer and that cohort. It's rightly mine now, you know."

She stared. "I hadn't thought of that. You're right; if you've got the Company, then that cohort is yours. I've been paying-could I just hire them?"

Arcolin shook his head. "I need more force in the south, Dorrin. The way things are down there, one cohort is too weak, and gives me too little flexibility. There's plenty of work, but for larger units. Trying to find and replace a whole cohort this winter? No. I need them back...unless it's critical for you."

"No-though I trust them more than my own militia, my militia's improved by having their example. I'll miss...it's my last connection to my whole life, Arcolin."

"If a veteran wants to stay with you, I won't argue," Arcolin said. "Except Selfer-I can't afford to lose a captain."

"He wants to get back to the Company," Dorrin said. "He asked for leave to spend Midwinter Feast up north. You have lost Siger already, though. Once we got to Chaya, he told Kieri he wanted to stay. He came from Lyonya originally."

"I knew that but hadn't thought of it in years. I'll miss him," Arcolin said. "He was with Kieri before I was. But there's still Hofrin. And Stammel's success with crossbows suggests to me that we could expand the archery units into the regular infantry."

"Well, back to your court appearance," Dorrin said. "Let's see how well Kieri's things fit you, while I explain the ritual."

"Do I have to bow to you because you're a duke?"

"No. But you do have to defer. And you do have to understand the argument that's ended with you being made a count instead of a duke."

"A count? I thought I'd start as baron."

"The North Marches are too big and too important to be a baron's grant. In fact, by size and position, it should be a dukedom, as it was. But because you're still an unknown quant.i.ty to most of these people, and the population's small, they're unwilling to go that far. Count's the middle choice. That means you won't have to take the sleeves off Kieri's count's robe. Be glad it's the Autumn Court, not Midsummer-I nearly suffocated in a ducal robe."

"But-ribbons at the knee?"

"Kieri did it. You can too."

The thought of Kieri Phelan in court dress with short breeches, ribbons at his knees, and those ridiculous court shoes...Arcolin wished he'd seen it.

His own appearance in court went more smoothly than he'd feared. As a "count-nominate," not yet confirmed in rank, he waited behind the others, as the n.o.bles-herded like errant sheep by the Master of Ceremonies-were urged into the right order in the procession. Dukes in front, then counts, then barons, the more senior t.i.tles in front of the more recent. He would be the lowest-ranking count, after his invest.i.ture.

Bells rang; trumpets blared; ahead of him the line edged forward. Another count-nominate-for the established county of Konhalt, whose count had been attainted as a Verrakai supporter-and two barons-nominate, both heirs of men who had died in the past year, waited with Arcolin. Behind each, a servant carried the court robe, carefully folded, and another held the staff with the nominate's pennant showing the mark and colors.

When the n.o.bles were all in place, ranged on either side of the hall, the nominates were led in by the Lord Herald in order of seniority. Duke Mahieran presented count-nominate Konhalt to the king and Council; when he had made his oath of fealty to the king, the king put on him the chain of office, kissed his forehead. When he stood again, the servant helped him into his robe, and Mahieran led him to his place in the row of counts, who moved aside for him.

Arcolin came next. Dorrin, as his sponsor, proclaimed him to the king and led him forward. He knelt, made his vows, received the chain of office and the kiss, and then felt the weight of the court robe on his shoulders. As he was the lowest-ranking count, only barons had to shift position to give him room.

The barons-nominate went through their invest.i.tures without incident, and when the king declared the ceremony over, they all moved on to the reception rooms. Arcolin had expected to find himself isolated among the other counts, but the dukes he'd met while carrying messages from Kieri all came to congratulate him.

"We need someone strong in the North Marches," Duke Marrakai said. "Someone who knows the territory, who has troops already there. Of course we all have sons who might like a grant of their own, but you're far more qualified than any of my my brood." From the emphasis, it was clear Marrakai thought his own brood more qualified than anyone else's. brood." From the emphasis, it was clear Marrakai thought his own brood more qualified than anyone else's.

Arcolin felt out of place at first, but by the end of the day, being addressed as "my lord Count" and chatting with other counts and dukes as if he were, in truth, a n.o.ble of Tsaia, felt normal. He sensed no real hostility. For all the opportunity the North Marches offered, the dangers of its position next to Pargun, the history of orc attacks and invasions, meant that second thoughts had cooled the interest of many of the lords and their sons.

He could not help but notice another factor: barons, counts, and even dukes introducing their families to him, particularly those families including daughters of marriageable age and sons who might benefit from a few years as someone else's squire. He was careful to give no immediate encouragement, but thinking ahead-Kieri had had squires, and they had been helpful. Dorrin had squires now, all dukes' children. He would need squires. A wife, though...he was not ready to consider that. Though the girls, in their best court dress, were certainly lovely, he could not imagine any of them being content in the north while he was away in the south every year. As well, he did not yet grasp the undercurrents within the court; a hasty alliance could be disastrous for him and for his land.

His land. He thought that now without hesitation, automatically. His land, his people, his Company...his king, in that palace. He wondered when Kieri had felt it normal for the first time...Kieri had been younger and perhaps had imagined it before, as he himself had not. And how was Kieri coming to grips with a change every bit as great as his own? Had Kieri chosen a wife?

In the next few days, Arcolin dealt with the necessary business: the banker, the judicar, a courier to ride south and tell Burek what had happened and where he was going, another to ride north at least as far as the Duke's-no, his his-south border and let his people know he was on the way. He and Stammel paid their visit to Tamis's grange; it was packed full that evening, and Stammel's story brought gasps and tears to many.

Finally, Arcolin and Stammel rode north, carrying with them the royal warrants of Arcolin's t.i.tle. At Burningmeed, his subjects gathered to hear the proclamation of his t.i.tle in the grange; they cheered him loudly. Vestin paraded the southern cohort for his inspection. The veterans stared at Stammel, but said nothing, and cheered Arcolin after the inspection.

The next day the two rode on into lowering clouds, a miserable cold drizzle sifting through the trees. Sodden leaves quieted the horses' hooves, and the bare fields of farmsteads, with cattle huddled together but still steadily grazing, suggested endurance more than abundance. Arcolin looked at each, noting the soundness of the buildings, the condition of fences, the apparent management of fields and orchards, the condition of the road itself. Here and there it was clear the cohort had done roadwork; and in some places he could see where work needed to be done. He let himself imagine how it could be in two hands of years...four...as he continued the work Kieri had begun. Sound roads, pa.s.sable in all seasons. St.u.r.dy houses, ample barns filled with grain and fodder, fat cattle, heavy-fleeced sheep, trees loaded with fruit or nuts...his horse stumbled a little and jolted him back to the present.

"Sir?" Stammel asked. He had heard the horse stumble, no doubt. He was sitting his horse upright as always and had no doubt felt the downward slope Arcolin had missed by daydreaming.

"I was thinking," Arcolin said, "when I should have been watching the road. We should reach Duke's East later today."

As he came in sight of Duke's East, he reined in. A sharp wind blew from the north through trees bare but for a few stubborn leaves. They had ridden through heavier cold rain earlier, but those clouds were behind them now. Ahead was the hard blue of a winter sky.

"We're close, aren't we?" Stammel asked.

"Yes. Looking down at Duke's East-I can see Kolya's orchard-leafless now-her cottage-the bridge over the stream-" He glanced over at Stammel, who looked gray and pinched. "Are you all right?"

"I can see it in my mind," Stammel said. "But what I see is not what other men see." He cleared his throat. "Does it look different, now that it's yours?"

"I was thinking how familiar it was," Arcolin said. "A comfort to come back and see this shape of land, those trees, the village...but yes, in a way it does look different." It had been Kieri's worry, and now it was his.

"It will always look the same to me, if...sorry, sir. Let's get on."

They rode down the slope. Kolya's cottage had a plume of smoke out the chimney, and several people gleaning late apples in her orchard turned to look at the riders. Waving, they ran toward the lane; Arcolin reined in.

Kolya was first to speak. "Sir, we heard you were the new duke-is it true?"

"Not duke," Arcolin said. "Count only, at this time."

"Did you see-" She stopped abruptly, staring at Stammel. He sat his horse with the same composure he had shown from the beginning. Someone else started to speak; Kolya's gesture was emphatic and hushed them all.

"We need to get out to the stronghold," Arcolin said. "I'll want to meet with the Councils of both Duke's East and Duke's West tomorrow; you need to see the new warrants, and we'll talk then. If you could let Mayor Fontaine know, and send a messenger to Duke's West. Right now-we're still damp from the past few days and could use a hot fire and dry clothes."

"Yes, sir. Of course." Her eyes never left Stammel's face; his expression never changed. "Welcome home, both of you."

Stammel nodded at that, then legged his horse into a quick walk. Arcolin caught up with him and led the way over the bridge, through the village-waving at those who waved, but not slowing.

He heard the trumpet's call borne on the north wind when they were in sight of the stronghold; he could just see the sun glinting from helmets. He was home...his home now. He looked around at the wide, windswept fields, the distant line of scrubby trees, the hills to the north and west. He would ride in, and someone would take his horse, and when he walked into the inner court...it was all his now. For one last instant, panic swept over him-he could not do it all, he could never be as good a lord as Kieri had been. Then it blew away on the crisp winter wind, on the memory of that summer's campaign, when he had done what he thought right. He was Count of the North Marches. It was enough. He He was enough. was enough.

Lyonya, near Halveric Steading

Many days on the road had confirmed Jeddrin Count Andressat's opinion that he did not like travel. He took no pleasure in novelty of place or person, and he was all too aware of duties he was not performing while he was gone. A ruler should stay at home, with his own people.

His thoughts ran on familiar lines. Foreigners were ill-bred; travel obliged one to mingle with such people, even traveling with one's own servants and guards. He had never, in his entire life, been over the mountains to the north, a place of barbarians and those who gave themselves ridiculous t.i.tles. Only a few in the north held t.i.tles for which he had any regard; he knew their lineage as he knew his own. The new king of Tsaia-well enough, the best they could do, all things considered. But Fintha, with no n.o.bility-ridiculous. Three of the Eight Kingdoms-Pargun and Kostandan and Dzordanya-had kings, but of no lineage that meant anything. He found no trace of ancient blood in them, no indication that their authority came from Old Aare.

He could respect, he had told himself, an honest merchant, if such existed, or a mercenary captain like Aliam Halveric or Jandelir Arcolin. Such men had expertise, and if they did not presume to consider themselves equals of their betters, he gave them the respect they deserved. That was the duty and responsibility of a n.o.ble, after all: to recognize worth and reward it.

But necessity demanded that he travel, and travel incognito at that. He must seek aid from someone he had misjudged as-to be honest-he had misjudged himself. He had bowed and sc.r.a.ped like any commoner-which, he reminded himself yet again, he was. He had slept in ordinary inns-hideous places in which he'd been forced to show coin before every mug of ale, let alone a bed for the night. Even in Valdaire, where, had he used his own name, the bowing and sc.r.a.ping would have gone the other way.

He huddled in his cloak as another autumn rain blew down from the mountains, roaring in the trees overhead. A horrible country, worse even than the pa.s.s over the mountains. Too many trees, blocking the view in every direction, closing him in. Mud and not rock under his horse's hooves, storms in the air that could not be seen until they were upon him. Only a few villages and fields-unfamiliar crops in the fields, unfamiliar fruit trees instead of the neat terraces of vines and oilberries on his own land. Green everywhere, too much green.

If not for the vision of his own land and its fields and vineyards, his own people toiling there, the smell of the herbs strong under the sun, the clatter of goats' hooves on the rocks...if not to save them, who had done no wrong and deserved no harm...he would not have stirred from Andressat, from those golden hills, those rocky bastions, summer's heat that dried the creeks, winter rain that filled them. He ached in every bone and cursed the day he'd first heard the name of Duke Kieri Phelan.

Aliam Halveric listened to the rain drumming on the stable roof, breathed in the fragrance of horses, good hay, oiled leather, and a hint of ripening fruit from the trees trained along the inner court wall, and wondered when it was he'd become an old man. Estil insisted he wasn't old, and she didn't seem old-barring the silver strands in her dark hair-but he felt felt old, joints aching, responsibilities almost too heavy to bear. His grandchildren sprouted day by day, it seemed, rising up around him like saplings around an old storm-blasted tree. old, joints aching, responsibilities almost too heavy to bear. His grandchildren sprouted day by day, it seemed, rising up around him like saplings around an old storm-blasted tree.

And now he had to deal with the Count of Andressat, whose envoy had announced the count's intention to visit on his way to Chaya to see the king. The king. Kieri. Once his servant, his squire, dear to him as a son or brother. His rival, at times, but always that bond of friendship. And now king, but king so much later than he should have been, because of Aliam. That still hurt, hurt enough that he sagged onto a chest, leaning on the wall and staring out at the water streaming on the courtyard stones. Kieri had forgiven him; he knew Kieri bore no grudge. But he could not forgive himself. He had known, and he had done nothing. Oh, he'd had reason enough to do nothing, but no reasons seemed enough now, when Aliam laid out for the thousandth time the consequences of old decisions.

He shivered, as a chill breeze blew damply into the barn, and rubbed hands no longer as callused and hard as the summer before, the summer he had still trained daily with his soldiers. He could not sit here all day. He had work to do; Andressat would be here today or tomorrow.

Across the courtyard, where rain now fell more gently, a girl peeked from the main keep door and then, ap.r.o.n flung over her head, dashed to the stables. "Grandfather! Grandmother wants you!" Aliam sighed and pushed himself up. He remembered the birth of this child's mother, and now the child of that child ran light-footed to his side, throwing her wet arms around him, grinning up with Estil's grin. Pain stabbed him. He was old, too old, and what would he leave this child?

In the main hall, tables had been laid. Estil smiled at his expression. "You said he was proud, Aliam. And he's been traveling incognito; his pride will be rubbed raw. We shall guest him as he feels he deserves, and he will reach Kieri in a better mood."

Aliam had to smile. "You always thought a little humility was good for proud men."

"I did. I do. But he's old, you said. And he's a guest."

"I'm old," Aliam said. The weight fell back on his spirit again; he could feel himself sagging.

Estil looked at him, a long considering look. "Do you miss the summer campaigns? Does it seem dull here?"

"No, it's not that." The years when he had taken his soldiers south each spring, the raw excitement of campaigning mixed with the drudgery of it, seemed long ago, little bright images from a different person's memory. "It's not dull here," he went on, forcing a smile. "Not with the children and their mischief; not with you..."

"It's not like you to brood, Aliam. You were never a brooder, but you are not happy now."

"I'm old."

"You're no older than I am," she said. "You've been...strange...ever since last winter, when the...the paladin came." When the Lady of the Ladysforest had come, but they could not speak those words, for the Lady had locked their tongues on that.

"It's my fault," Aliam said. Tears stung his eyes. "If I had-"

"You couldn't know," Estil said, a hand on his arm. "You couldn't be sure. You had reasons..."

"Reasons!" Aliam said. The bitterness in his voice shocked him, and two of the servants pa.s.sing through the hall turned to look at him and then hurried on. "Tammarion died because of me," he said more softly. "I'm the one who tutored Kieri in the courtesy of warriors and taught him how women fighters should be respected; it's not just the sword, but...if not for me he would surely have drawn it sometime or other. Their children would be alive, she would be alive, he would be whole."

"He is whole," Estil said. "You are the one who's not." Then her hand flew to her mouth, as if to take the words back, and her face paled.

Aliam looked at her. "I know. I know I'm not. I can't live with it, Estil, what I've done and not done. I'm sorry. I'm sorry for all of it, and that it can't be changed, and that I...can't go on."

"Aliam-"

He shook his head and moved past her. Up the stairs, each one harder to climb than the next, and into his study, where a bowl still held a sprig of undying apple blossom, a gift of the Lady. The scent should have refreshed him, but now...now it was another wound. He sat down heavily.

Estil could manage without him; she'd done it summer after summer, all those years. The steading was more hers than his; she had managed it for him with all the skill and grace a man could ask for. His sons were all alive, barring Seliam-more tears came when he thought of Seliam, killed in Aarenis. Cal had heirs of the body; his eldest son was as old now as Aliam had been when he hired his first soldier. Kieri certainly didn't need him; he would be only a constant reminder of what could have been, if Aliam had had the courage to say what he knew. He could trust Kieri to treat his family well, in matters of inheritance; that was all he could ask for.

All he had to do was make it through the Count of Andressat's visit, play the host as he'd done for so many others, and then...his imagination failed. Old men died so many ways. Their eyesight dimmed; they tripped down stairs and stumbled off walls. Their hearing dimmed; they did not hear stampeding herds, shouted warnings of danger. They fell off horses and broke their necks; they fell into rivers and drowned. He had to be sure it was not seen as anyone's fault; he wanted no more guilt carried by his family than they already bore.

On that resolution, he stood, feeling a little stronger now, breathed in the scent of apple blossom, and went out to find Estil striding along the hall looking angry. "There you are-"

"Is he come?" Aliam said. "I just remembered, he has a fondness for cakes sprinkled with that southern spice, the yellow one. I can't think of the name-"

"Figan," Estil said, diverted by a cookery problem. "We have some, yes. Cooked in or sprinkled on after, do you know?"

"I don't," Aliam said. "At his own house, he gave us such cakes. The flavor was more on the top, but baked in or added after, I can't say." He pushed away the memory of that day, when the count had made it so obvious how little he respected Kieri and he himself had done nothing about it.

"Mercan just came; the rain's stopped, and the count's just a few hours' ride away. I have just time if I start now...but Aliam, please-please don't-"

The smile came easier now, and must have looked natural, for Estil seemed to relax even as he spoke. "I'll get over it," he said. "Maybe you're right, and I am missing summers in Aarenis-all that heat, sweating and stinking in my armor-" He tried for a mocking tone and she chuckled. But he thought...all those ways to die. Old men slowed down; old men were easier to kill. Maybe he should go south again.

"I love you," she said. "And now I must get to the kitchen. Just check the guest chambers, will you? I've tried to make them as southern as I could, with things you brought back, but I don't know..." Her voice trailed away as she set off back downstairs.

Aliam looked into the guest chambers she'd set aside for Andressat, with hangings in Andressat's colors, piles of pillows re-covered in blue and gold, southern carpets spread on the floors. The rooms smelled of fresh herbs and a hint of rose essence. But out the windows, instead of Andressat's open plains and rocky slopes under the burning blue of the southern sky in summer, he saw the rich green of northern gra.s.s, summer pasture ending in a wall of forest, a forest so different from those in the south. He himself had found the south exotic, exciting, but he still loved this best; he still loved the cool deep shade under trees the size of houses, the creatures that lived in those woods. He suspected Andressat would find the north oppressive, that he had traveled unwillingly and thus with no intention of enjoying what he found. He would be stiff and difficult, as he had always been.