“Thank you, sir.” Sef turned to the hearth, stirred the fire, and dipped a can of water from the barrel, setting it to heat.

Arcolin unrolled the message. A smaller wrapped packet fell out; he put it aside. There, in the Duke’s hand—with a postscript by Dorrin, he saw at a glance—he found what he had never imagined. Kieri Phelan revealed as the rightful king of Lyonya—Paksenarrion had discovered it, come to Tsaia to find him—Tammarion’s sword had been his sword all along, elf-made for him, and it had declared him. Arcolin glanced at Sef, who was stirring roots and herbs into the can. “Did you see this yourself? Were you in Vérella with the Duke?”

“No, Captain. I was with the reserve troop. Captain Selfer come up from Vérella, him and the horse both near knackered, and said the best rider must go fast as could be to the stronghold.” Sef swallowed. “He thought it would be only two days, maybe, but that fog came in. I couldn’t go more than a foot pace, mostly leading the horse. It’s taken me twice as long as it should have, three days and this morning.”

“I’m not surprised,” Arcolin said. “We had thick fog for days, up here; you did well, Sef.” He read on, while Sef stirred the can of sib, struggling to make sense of what had happened. His mind snagged on Paksenarrion—once in his cohort. I must go, and leave her in torment, Kieri had written. Otherwise her torment is meaningless. Yet it is a stain on my honor. You will rule in my stead until the Regency Council confirms a new lord. I recommended you, but do not know what they will do. This letter and my signet ring will prove your identity and authority.

Arcolin unwrapped the smaller packet and found the Duke’s ring. Not one of the copies he lent to his captains on occasion to do business for him, but the original, the one he himself wore.

Dorrin’s postscript was brief. She was going with Kieri, on his orders; her cohort would follow. She feared more attacks on the Duke—scratched out to read King—on the road east. She did not know when she might return; it would depend upon his need.

Arcolin rolled the pages and slid them back into the tube. “Well. You will have traveled ahead of any word of his passage to the east—” He tried to estimate where Kieri might be, where Dorrin might be, seven days on a road he himself had never traveled. Impossible.

“Right, Captain.” Sef stirred the can again, sniffed it. “Want some sib, sir?”

“No thanks. Go ahead.”

Sef took a mug down from the rack and poured one for himself as he talked. “Captain Selfer said Captain Dorrin expected his cohort to catch up with the Duke before the Lyonya border. Wish I was with them—” He took a swallow of hot sib.

“I’m—I must admit I’m shocked … amazed … I don’t know what to think,” Arcolin said. “Our Duke a king—all the rest—” Remembering Paks as a recruit, a novice … the steady, reliable soldier she’d become … why she left, and when … the rumors … and then her return. He squeezed his eyes hard against tears, at the thought of her in Liart’s hands, shook his head, and looked again at Sef. “You’ve done very well, Sef. Go tell the cooks to give you a hot meal, and I’ll get Stammel to find you a place to sleep undisturbed.”