“He’s blind, and he’s an archer—he’s too sensible, I think, to believe more than it’s a tale with a use—and a good use he made of it.”

At the Field of Falk, the Captain greeted him warmly. “I have the Halveric sword cleansed, blessed, and ready for travel,” he said. “I took the liberty of having our Field leatherworker make it a scabbard—it may not be the Halveric scabbard, but it is good quality and will not dishonor the blade.” Arcolin thanked him, took the sword in its scabbard, and went to find the Captain of Tir.

He found the gruff-voiced Captain bare to the waist and trading buffets from a stick with two soldiers. “So, how is our blind hero?” the Captain asked. “I hear tales of the Blind Archer returning to end corruption and evil.”

“Not that,” Arcolin said, and explained.

“A brave man,” the Captain said. “An honor to Tir, that one. Send him to me; I would give him a blessing before he leaves. And Tir’s thanks to you, for not wasting his courage, for letting him return to the life he knows.”

Back at camp, Stammel was on the point of leaving with Suli for guide and another eight. Arcolin told him he should visit Marshal Harak and the Captain of Tir, and Stammel nodded. “I meant to,” he said.

The night before they left Cortes Vonja, Arcolin offered Stammel a choice.

“I must go north, to Autumn Court in Vérella,” he said. “I will be granted the North Marches permanently then, and from there I must go north again, to the Duke’s—to my stronghold. Burek is well able to command the cohort on the road and in winter quarters. It is up to you whether you come with me or stay in Valdaire. You would be of use either way. If you choose to stay south, I’ll take Devlin.”

Stammel thought for a long moment. “The cohort needs a sighted sergeant,” he said. “Burek, too. He’s good, but he’ll need someone who knows all the local tricks.”

“Well, then. We ride tomorrow, you and I, at speed.”

One of the horses went lame between Foss and Fossnir; they had made good time before that, and Arcolin decided they would stay at an inn that night since they had arrived far too late to ride on. On a whim, he thought of the Blind Archer, which proved to be, in the way of inns in Foss Council towns, a clean whitewashed place with good stables.

They came into the common room to eat; it was moderately busy, mostly with obvious merchants. Arcolin chose one of the smaller tables to one side of the main entrance, where he could see both the door and out the window to the busy street. They ordered, and while they were waiting for their food someone behind him—a man he had barely noticed—asked for paper and ink in a querulous voice. A voice he knew—but the other conversations in the room grew louder; he could not hear the man’s voice anymore.