“I can see it in my mind,” Stammel said. “But what I see is not what other men see.” He cleared his throat. “Does it look different, now that it’s yours?”

“I was thinking how familiar it was,” Arcolin said. “A comfort to come back and see this shape of land, those trees, the village … but yes, in a way it does look different.” It had been Kieri’s worry, and now it was his.

“It will always look the same to me, if … sorry, sir. Let’s get on.”

They rode down the slope. Kolya’s cottage had a plume of smoke out the chimney, and several people gleaning late apples in her orchard turned to look at the riders. Waving, they ran toward the lane; Arcolin reined in.

Kolya was first to speak. “Sir, we heard you were the new duke—is it true?”

“Not duke,” Arcolin said. “Count only, at this time.”

“Did you see—” She stopped abruptly, staring at Stammel. He sat his horse with the same composure he had shown from the beginning. Someone else started to speak; Kolya’s gesture was emphatic and hushed them all.

“We need to get out to the stronghold,” Arcolin said. “I’ll want to meet with the Councils of both Duke’s East and Duke’s West tomorrow; you need to see the new warrants, and we’ll talk then. If you could let Mayor Fontaine know, and send a messenger to Duke’s West. Right now—we’re still damp from the past few days and could use a hot fire and dry clothes.”

“Yes, sir. Of course.” Her eyes never left Stammel’s face; his expression never changed. “Welcome home, both of you.”

Stammel nodded at that, then legged his horse into a quick walk. Arcolin caught up with him and led the way over the bridge, through the village—waving at those who waved, but not slowing.

He heard the trumpet’s call borne on the north wind when they were in sight of the stronghold; he could just see the sun glinting from helmets. He was home … his home now. He looked around at the wide, windswept fields, the distant line of scrubby trees, the hills to the north and west. He would ride in, and someone would take his horse, and when he walked into the inner court … it was all his now. For one last instant, panic swept over him—he could not do it all, he could never be as good a lord as Kieri had been. Then it blew away on the crisp winter wind, on the memory of that summer’s campaign, when he had done what he thought right. He was Count of the North Marches. It was enough. He was enough.

Lyonya, near Halveric Steading

Many days on the road had confirmed Jeddrin Count Andressat’s opinion that he did not like travel. He took no pleasure in novelty of place or person, and he was all too aware of duties he was not performing while he was gone. A ruler should stay at home, with his own people.