“I’m glad to meet you, Captain,” Calla said, coming forward. “By your accent you’re from the south, I think?”

“Yes, my lady.”

Arneson paraded the recruit cohort after supper, and Arcolin inspected them, finding—as usual in this stage of training—many things to comment on. They looked much like any intake and would be ready, he was sure, for their first campaign season in the spring.

As he came into his quarters, he heard Calla’s voice from the kitchen—she was chatting with the cook, and both sounded relaxed and happy. He went on upstairs. Servants had removed the bathing things; the fire burned bright, and candles gave even more light. The room no longer bore any trace of Kieri except the big bed itself—and with its new furnishings, it might have been any bed.

“You are gone, bright ones,” he said to the memories of Tamar and the children engendered in this bed. “Be at peace. Our joy will not diminish your memory.”

That night, when Calla nestled against him, his last doubts vanished; his past life made sense, the decisions that had led to this. He knew peace and security could vanish, he knew life might still bring them both pain, but he was not ungrateful enough to ignore this respite. Even the dragon, he thought, as he drifted off to sleep, might count him wise in that small way.

Next morning, Arcolin breakfasted with his recruit captain; Calla had, she told him, a busy day planned for herself and Jamis. He himself planned to ride out to the hills with Dattur to meet the gnomes. When he came to the forecourt with Dattur, he found the estvin and four gnomes waiting for him. They wore gray with an elaborate pattern of braid running down the front of their jackets. He could read the gnomish now: Arcolinfulk. His name. His people.

“Greetings, rockbrothers,” Arcolin said in gnomish. The gnomes bowed, and he bowed in return. “It is my honor to see you again in this place. I have studied your speech with the help of Dattur.” He gestured to Dattur.

“That one kteknik,” the estvin said in Common. “It is not to wear the tribe’s garments.”

Dattur took two steps forward, confronting the estvin. “My prince names me belonging. Aldonfulk accepted him as prince and on his word gave me clothes. And you know me, Frakkur.”

“Name forbidden.” The estvin looked up at Arcolin. “This one kteknik.”

“You were all kteknik by Dragon’s word,” Arcolin said, in gnomish again. “You had no stone-right. I gave stone-right. Now you wear a uniform naming your prince. Who is your prince?”

The estvin prostrated himself, as did the others, once more kissing Arcolin’s boot. Dattur, to his surprise, kissed his other boot. “Lord, it is that the lord Duke is our prince.”