A Man came riding.

The weak sunlight of early spring glinted on his hair, red-gold. His eyes were wide-set and demanding, his hands steady on the reins as he guided his solid dun mount. Tanaros felt weak, beholding him.

Aracus Altorus.

It was him, of course. There was no denying it, no denying the kingship passed down generation upon generation, though the kingdom itself was lost. It did not matter that he wore no crown, that his cloak was dun-grey, designed to blend with the plains of Curonan. What he was, he was. He looked like Roscus. And he looked like Calista, too—Tanaros’ wife, so long ago. The set of the eyes, last seen believing. How not? He was of their blood.

And at his side, another, dark-haired and quiet, with scarred knuckles. Unlike his lord, he was watchful as he rode, stern gaze surveying the wood as they emerged into the glade. Ravens took wing, the perspective shifting and blurring as they withdrew, resolving at a greater distance.

Once, Tanaros had ridden just so, at the right hand of his lord.

Strange, that his memory of Roscus’ face as he died was so vague. Surprised, he thought. Yes, that was it. Roscus Altorus had looked surprised, as he raised his hand to the sword-hilt protruding from his belly. There had been no time for aught else.

In the churning Ravensmirror, in Lindanen Dale, Aracus Altorus halted, his second-in-command beside him. Behind them, a small company of Borderguard sat their mounts, silent and waiting in their dun-grey cloaks.

The Ellyl lord in command met him, bowing low, a gesture of grace and courtesy. Aracus nodded his head, accepting it as his due. Who is to say what the Ellyl thought? There was old sorrow in his eyes, and grave acceptance. He spoke to the Altorian king-in-exile, his mouth moving soundlessly in the Ravensmirror, one arm making a sweeping gesture, taking in the glade. There and there, he was saying, and pointed to the river.

Such a contrast between them! Tanaros marveled at it. Next to the ageless courtesy of the Ellyl lord, Aracus Altorus appeared coarse and abrupt, rough-hewn, driven by the brevity of his lifespan. Small wonder Cerelinde Elterrion’s granddaughter had refused this union generation after generation. And yet … and yet. In that very roughness lay vitality, the leaping of red blood in the vein, the leaping of desire in the loins, the quickening of the flesh.

Satoris’ Gift, when he had one.