“No,” Kieri said. “It is not fair to the young to marry old men. Though I am not yet old, and thanks to my mother’s blood will live long, I have seen too much of life to be a good husband to a young girl. Young women should marry young men, and build their dreams together.”

“That’s a new idea,” the old Sier said, shaking his head. “So you will marry an old woman, and by your magery she will bear children? Will she live to see them grown?”

His fellow Councilmen were trying to shush him, but once in full flow, nothing stopped Hammarrin.

“Or maybe you’ll marry an elf and she’ll outlive you. If she doesn’t take it into her head to go get killed somewhere.”

The elves around the table stirred and looked at Kieri.

“Whoever I marry,” Kieri said, in a tone that silenced the old man for the moment, “it will be someone willing, someone old enough to know her own mind, someone who cares for this kingdom as much as I do. And,” he said, looking around, “it will be my choice and hers. Not yours. Not yours to make, and not yours to criticize.”

“Well said,” Sier Halveric said. “Falk’s blessings on your courting, Sir King, and I will keep my granddaughters home, then.” He grinned; the others chuckled. Several daughters, Kieri thought, might be going home for Midwinter Feast.

When Kieri went up to his room that night and his attendants had left him alone, he went to the window, pushed aside the curtains, and leaned his head on the cold stone. Winter stars glittered in the cold sky. His memories of Tammarion rose, bright as ever, as clear as Torre’s Necklace. He had never intended to cloud her memory with another woman in his bed, in his life.

“Tamar … help me,” he said softly, to the night and the stars. “I’m sorry …”

As if she were in the room, he heard her laugh and the merest whisper of that loved voice—he had not heard it before, in all the years since her death. You cannot dishonor me, love, by doing your duty—and your duty to your queen is love. Whom else could you love but a woman with a sword? Light on his brow, the touch of her lips; faint in his nostrils, her scent. Then a curl of cold air took it away; and his eyes filled with hot tears. Silently, he wept, until the tears ended without his awareness and the cold air dried them.

A woman with a sword. His mind ranged over all the women he had known in a lifetime of war. He knew some of them had loved him, or thought they did. Aesil M’dierra would have fought Tammarion for him—and lost, he was convinced—but Tamar had not needed to fight, for he was hers already. Dorrin had loved him awhile, as juniors often did love seniors, and in Falk’s Hall the young men and women thought and felt as young men and women, not seasoned warriors. But by the time she came to his Company, she had been over that, or so it had seemed.