“You’re Girdish, Captain.”

“Yes—so?”

“So maybe it’s different with Girdish, but I—I don’t think I should change allegiance, just for the hope of seeing again.” Despite the words, longing colored his voice.

“I can’t think of a better reason, if you wanted to,” Arcolin said. “There’s nothing dishonorable about wanting your sight back.” Stammel said nothing more that evening.

The rest of the trip went smoothly enough—always less rain at this time of year—and they reached Valdaire with several days to spare before the Autumn Evener.

As they rode up to the gates, one of the guards said, “There he is! Sir, a message for you.”

“For me?” Arcolin scowled.

“Yes, sir. Duke Verrakai asked if you would care to stay at Verrakai House. Said there’s a message from the king.”

Which king? Possibly Kieri, he thought. He had not heard from Kieri since writing to him about Stammel’s blindness.

“Where is it?” Arcolin asked. The guard gave directions and waved them on.

The streets seemed normally busy, the people in them not as tense as they had been before. When they came to Verrakai House, Arcolin realized he had seen it before but never noticed it, though it faced the palace walls, across a wide street. Plain, unremarkable, and always—now he thought of it—shuttered tightly. Now the upper-floor shutters stood open, though the day was cool. Blue-striped curtains hung at either side. As the horses came to a stop, the door opened. A man in Verrakai livery looked up at them.

“Yes?”

“Captain Arcolin to see Dorrin—the Duke,” Arcolin said.

The man smiled. “She was hoping you’d be here yesterday, sir. Just let me get someone to take the horses—” He turned and yelled something into the house. Arcolin dismounted and held the reins of Stammel’s horse while he, too, dismounted. Soon they heard footsteps coming, hard heels on a tile or stone floor. First was a young man in Verrakai blue with the rose and white colors of Mahieran at his shoulder, clearly a squire.

“I’m Beclan Mahieran,” he said. “M’lord’s on the way but bade me make you welcome. I’ll take your horses.” He took the reins from Arcolin just as Dorrin appeared behind him.

Dorrin in blue and gray instead of maroon and white was still Dorrin, that familiar sharp-boned face, dark hair pulled back. “Arcolin! Falk’s Oath, I’ve missed you!” They clasped arms, and then she looked at Stammel. “Stammel—what happened?” A sharp glance at Arcolin.

“A tale best told in private,” Arcolin said.

When they were inside, sitting at ease in one of the ground-floor rooms, with refreshments spread on a low table, Dorrin said, “I see you’re blind, Sergeant—and yet I see no scars.” She had handed him a mug of sib.

Stammel answered as frankly as always. “I don’t understand it all, my lord. It started with that fellow Korryn—” He and Arcolin together told of the merchant’s capture, Stammel’s realization that one of the caravan guards was the man branded at the stronghold years before, the attack on those in the prison office, Stammel’s collapse.