“It’s early,” Dorrin said, “but I think you should rest, Stammel, if you can.”

“I agree,” Tamis said. “He’s the only one who’s survived an invasion, isn’t he?”

“One small boy,” Dorrin said. “I was able to intervene before the transfer was complete. But holding down, controlling an invader for so long …”

Stammel yawned. “Sorry, my lord, Marshal.”

“Let’s get you to bed, then. I need to talk to Jandelir, Stammel, but I’ll have someone in the room with you, if you need anything.”

Arcolin watched as Stammel lay down, falling into what looked like normal sleep within a few breaths.

“Extraordinary,” Marshal Tamis said. He turned to Arcolin. “And congratulations to you—I understand you’re to be confirmed as lord of the north to replace Kieri Phelan.”

“Yes,” Arcolin said.

“I hope you’ll visit my grange—with your sergeant—while you’re still in the city. Both of you have stories to tell that would do my yeomen good to hear. Not before the ceremony, of course, but after.”

“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.”