In the cellar of a tall house within a few minutes of the palace gates, he gave a coded knock. A hard-faced man with a spiked billet opened the door. “What d’you want, rat?” the man asked.

“For Duke Verrakai’s hand only,” the boy said. “From the Horned Chain.”

“I’ll take him,” another man said, stepping out of looming shadows. He wore the red and black of Liart, and the horned chain was about his neck. “Come, boy.”

Shaking with fear, the boy followed, up stairs and along a corridor, to a room where another man, in Verrakai blue and silver, sat writing at a table by a fire.

“I am Duke Verrakai. You have a message for me: give it.”

The boy seemed to choke, and then, in a deep voice not his own, spoke the words Liart’s priest had bade him say. “The man is free, and his companions; the paladin is ours. Without her aid, he can be taken. He must not reach Lyonya alive.”

“He will not,” Duke Verrakai said. “Is there more?” The boy dug into his tunic and pulled out a folded paper; Verrakai took it and read it. “Well,” he said, with a glance at the man in red and black. “It seems we must return this boy with our answer.” He wrote on the reverse of the message, folded it, and handed it to the boy. “Go the way you came, swiftly.”

Less than a half-glass later, a man in Verrakai blue rode out the south gates of Vérella and turned east on the river road. Later, after the turn of night, Kieri Phelan, newly revealed king of Lyonya, also rode through the gates, with an escort of the Royal Guard.

Duke’s Stronghold, North Marches, seven days later

Jandelir Arcolin, senior captain of Duke Phelan’s Company, rested his forearms on the top of the stronghold walls, where he had the best view to the south. On one side of the road to Duke’s East, Stammel was putting his own cohort through an intricate marching drill. On the other, the junior sergeant of the recruit cohort supervised a sword drill with wooden blades. Beyond, the trees along the stream showed the first soft golds and oranges of ripening buds, though it would be hands of days yet before the fruit trees bloomed. Old snow still lay knee-deep against the north wall.

He heard steps behind him, and turned. Cracolnya, captain of the mixed cohort, came up onto the walkway with him.

“Are you putting down roots up here?” he asked.

Arcolin shook his head. “Hoping for a courier. We should have heard something by now. At least the weather’s lifted. Though not for long.” He tipped his head to the northwest, where a line of dark clouds just showed over the hills.

“Your worry won’t bring the Duke faster,” Cracolnya said. He turned his back on the view south and leaned against the parapet. “I wonder what we’ll do this year.”