“You are Jandelir Arcolin?” the man asked. His voice, unlike his face, was instantly recognizable: Samdal, his father’s Chancellor’s son, who had been his companion in many a mischief those years ago. “You have some of the look of him.”

“I’m Jandelir Arcolin,” Arcolin said, nodding. “And you’re Samdal, are you not? Veldan’s son?”

“Yes. It is you, then. We were not sure. We had heard of you over the years, but you were with that redheaded Tsaian duke, Phelan. And now you’re the commander?” He looked around. “Where is Phelan?”

“He is king of Lyonya now, in the north,” Arcolin said. “I command this company, on contract to Foss Council. In the north, I’m titled Count of the North Marches, oathsworn to Mikeli, king of Tsaia.” He had a place and name, that meant; he fit into the loom of society like any other length of yarn. He would not mention gnomes to Samdal. Or dragons. Least of all dragons.

Samdal bowed low. “You have been gone too long, my lord. It is time for the son of the mountains to serve the mountains and the flame.” It sounded like a formula, but he had not heard it before.

“I am not a lord to you, ’Dal, and never have been. Surely you remember that.” The fact of his own bastardy stood between them; Samdal had been his playmate but also ranked above him.

“Before your father and your brothers died, that was true. But now, my lord, you are. Did you not know?”

“I knew my father had died, and my eldest brother. But not the others, and Galdalir had sons. I cannot be heir.” Not now, not after so many years. Not as a bastard. Surely his brothers had sired sons.

“My lord, misfortune followed your family as rain follows thunder, and washed them away. If you had not left—if you had sought word—”

“And why would I?” Arcolin asked, struggling to keep his voice even. “You know the circumstances of my leaving. I was not wanted, but as Perdal’s servant.” The old bitterness dried his mouth. “Should I have stayed for that? And if I had, would you now think me anything but a servant, worn out in his service as I would have been?”

“You chose northern taint and a foreign god, Jandelir. You could have busied yourself in Aarenis at least. Valdaire, perhaps—”

“I have spent most of my working life in Aarenis—every campaign season and many winters—and no one ever came to me.” What he’d learned of his family had been merchants’ gossip, scant enough. He had not expected better of them, but he had hoped.