“Using what materials? I have stone, steel, and flesh.”

“You have mercy and justice.”

“I have my wits.”

“With all respect, Lord Stronghand, your wit will not survive you.”

“What if I care nothing for what passes in the world once I am gone?”

“Do you not?”

He laughs. “If I cared nothing, I would not be sitting here.”

In the distance, too faint for the deacon to hear, guards call out a challenge. He cocks his head, listening, and identifies the lilt of voice and rhythm of hurried stride as that of Lord Erling. Strange that Erling should be here in Hefenfelthe instead of tending to his own earldom. Trueheart shakes himself alert.

“Is someone come?” asks the deacon belatedly, turning to look. “It’s so late …”

The young Alban sweeps through the door as if on a gust of wind, hair blown in disarray and cloak streaming back as he approaches the dais. Four soldiers, two Eika and two Albans, follow him. Stronghand’s Eika guards shift into readiness, axes and spears raised, but Erling halts and drops to one knee. Stronghand lifts his hand and, given permission by this gesture, the young man rises.

“I did not expect to see you,” says Stronghand.

“News!” He is flushed with news. His skin is red.

“How fares the middle country?”

“Well enough considering we’ve not yet had sun this year. Folk fear it is a sign of the gods’ displeasure.”

“Do you think it so?”

Erling has taken to wearing a Circle of Unity. His is silver, finely made, and incised with leaves as if to recall the old religion he left behind. He touches it now. “It might be. I am no priest to name God’s will. Still, the folk who have lost what they once had might have reason to suppose God displeased with them. I worry for the summer’s growing season if the weather remains so damp and cloudy.”

“As do we all,” says Deacon Ursuline.

“What brings you south, Erling?” Stronghand asks.

The young man nods. “I wished to observe the anniversary of my mother’s death at Briden Manor, south of the river. I rode south to plant a tree at her grave.”

“So the tree priests would have you do,” scolds the deacon, although her tone is benign, not harsh. “Better to pray for her soul and dedicate a convent in her memory.”

“Can I do that?”

“Surely you can, and endow a dozen novices to pray for your mother’s soul each and every day of the year.”

“I like that idea! But I would need a priestess—a mother—to watch over them and guide them.”

“I can make sure that such a woman, we call her an abbess, is available to you, Lord Erling. You need only ask.”

“As must I,” says Stronghand, tapping one foot. “What news do you bring me so late at night and in such a rush as if on the wings of a storm?”

“Ah! Just that, Lord! An omen has been seen in the south! A dragon! Seen flying by the sea.”