In the late-winter dusk, the grange was brightly lit from within, though the big doors at the road end were shut. At the barton entrance two young yeomen stood guard, faces stern as Dorrin and Sir Valthan approached.

“Welcome, visitors,” said one. Then his eyes widened. “Sir—you are a Knight of the Bells—I’ll get the Marshal.” He whirled and darted into the barton.

Dorrin grinned at the other guard, much younger, who looked confused and uncertain. “This is Sir Valthan Destvaorn, of the Royal Guard,” she said. “And I’m Dorrin, a Knight of Falk.”

Valthan glanced at her, his eyes glinting in the torchlight. But then he nodded; evidently he understood and accepted her reason for not proclaiming her new status this night.

One of the Marshals Dorrin had seen after the battle came to the barton gate, wiping his hands on his tunic, sweat gleaming on his face. “Welcome, sir knight—lady—oh! I remember you, don’t I? I’m Marshal Berris.”

“That’s right,” Dorrin said. “I’m Dorrin, and as a Knight of Falk ask courtesy of the grange. This is Sir Valthan—”

“Knight of the Bells, that’s what the lad said. Welcome, sir. And you, my lady. Knights of Falk are always welcome, and you in particular. Come in, both of you. I’ve had to add drill nights, since the grange has grown so in size.”

“This is Harway Grange?” Valthan asked.

“It’s the grange for Harway now,” Berris said. “It was established before the border was set, as a village barton in the early days of the war, Thornhedge. So it’s on the grange rolls at Fin Panir as Thornhedge Grange, but Harway’s long grown out to swallow the old vill and travelers call us Harway Grange. I suppose I should write the Marshal-General and see to getting it changed, but I don’t like to lose the old name.”

“And no wonder,” Valthan said. In the barton, steam rose from the sweaty yeomen who had been drilling furiously—formation drills, Dorrin noticed; some were rubbing bruises from the hauks. “When it pleases you, Marshal, I’m ready to take my turn.”

Berris chuckled. “And they’re ready for a breather, I daresay. So am I, though. I daresay this lady, Falkian though she be, will not mind a few touches with you—”

“She traveled all day, Marshal; I believe her fatigued, as I am not.”

Berris glanced at Dorrin. “My apologies, then. Perhaps—”

“I’ve had food and a rest, Marshal,” Dorrin said. “I would be pleased to cross blades with Sir Valthan, though not to his hurt. I understand that your rules do not require blood be drawn?”

“No, certainly not. And should you prefer another mode of combat, you have only to ask. We will be glad to observe two knights of different traditions—”

“And one non-knightly tradition,” Dorrin said. “As you know, Marshal—and many of you may as well—” She looked around at the interested faces. “I was one of Duke Phelan’s—now King Falkieri’s—captains when he was a mercenary.”