And now he had to deal with the Count of Andressat, whose envoy had announced the count’s intention to visit on his way to Chaya to see the king. The king. Kieri. Once his servant, his squire, dear to him as a son or brother. His rival, at times, but always that bond of friendship. And now king, but king so much later than he should have been, because of Aliam. That still hurt, hurt enough that he sagged onto a chest, leaning on the wall and staring out at the water streaming on the courtyard stones. Kieri had forgiven him; he knew Kieri bore no grudge. But he could not forgive himself. He had known, and he had done nothing. Oh, he’d had reason enough to do nothing, but no reasons seemed enough now, when Aliam laid out for the thousandth time the consequences of old decisions.

He shivered, as a chill breeze blew damply into the barn, and rubbed hands no longer as callused and hard as the summer before, the summer he had still trained daily with his soldiers. He could not sit here all day. He had work to do; Andressat would be here today or tomorrow.

Across the courtyard, where rain now fell more gently, a girl peeked from the main keep door and then, apron flung over her head, dashed to the stables. “Grandfather! Grandmother wants you!” Aliam sighed and pushed himself up. He remembered the birth of this child’s mother, and now the child of that child ran light-footed to his side, throwing her wet arms around him, grinning up with Estil’s grin. Pain stabbed him. He was old, too old, and what would he leave this child?

In the main hall, tables had been laid. Estil smiled at his expression. “You said he was proud, Aliam. And he’s been traveling incognito; his pride will be rubbed raw. We shall guest him as he feels he deserves, and he will reach Kieri in a better mood.”

Aliam had to smile. “You always thought a little humility was good for proud men.”

“I did. I do. But he’s old, you said. And he’s a guest.”

“I’m old,” Aliam said. The weight fell back on his spirit again; he could feel himself sagging.

Estil looked at him, a long considering look. “Do you miss the summer campaigns? Does it seem dull here?”

“No, it’s not that.” The years when he had taken his soldiers south each spring, the raw excitement of campaigning mixed with the drudgery of it, seemed long ago, little bright images from a different person’s memory. “It’s not dull here,” he went on, forcing a smile. “Not with the children and their mischief; not with you …”

“It’s not like you to brood, Aliam. You were never a brooder, but you are not happy now.”

“I’m old.”

“You’re no older than I am,” she said. “You’ve been … strange … ever since last winter, when the … the paladin came.” When the Lady of the Ladysforest had come, but they could not speak those words, for the Lady had locked their tongues on that.