Come to that, there had never been anyone with him who understood that it was a glorious sight until tonight. Bazie would have—but Bazie had spent most of his time in the cellar room, and there was never the time or leisure for his boys to bring him up for a sunset.

They stood together until the last vestige of rose faded from the clouds, and only then did they realize that they were not alone.

Behind them were another Herald and Companion, who must have come up behind them so quietly that not even Skif’s instincts were alerted—and that took some skill.

Skif didn’t even know they were there until Cymry reacted, with a sudden glance over her shoulder, a start and a little jump.

Then he looked behind, and saw the strangers.

He turned quickly, sure that they were somewhere they shouldn’t have been, but the tall, elderly man standing with one arm around his Companion’s shoulders (even as Skif had stood with Cymry) smiled and forestalled any apology.

“I beg your pardon, youngling, for startling you,” the man said, his voice surprisingly deep for one as thin as he was. “We often come here to admire the sunset, and didn’t see any reason to disturb your enjoyment. Rolan tells me that you are Skif and Cymry.”

The man’s uniform was a touch above the ones that Herald Teren and Dean Elcarth had worn; there was a lot of silver embroidery on the white deerskin tunic, and Skif would have been willing to bet anything he had that the trews and shirt this Herald wore were silk.

The Companion was something special as well; he was just a little glossier, just a little taller, and had just a touch more of an indefinable dignity than any of the others Skif had seen thus far did.

:This is the Queen’s Own Herald Talamir and Rolan, the Grove-Born,: Cymry said hastily in his mind, in a tone that told Skif (even though he had no idea what the titles meant) that these two were somehow very, very special, even by the standards of Heralds.

“Yessir, Herald Talamir,” Skif said, with an awkward bob of his head. It was a very odd thing. He had seen any number of highborn, and never felt any reason to respect them. He did respect the Heralds he’d met so far—but this man, without doing more than simply stand there, somehow commanded respect. But at the same time, there was an aura of what Beel might have called mortality and what others might have called fey that hung about him.