Iome knew this place only from maps and tomes and conversations. Groverman came to her father’s castle for the Council of Lords each fall and winter, but she’d never seen his home. For centuries the lords of Groverman had governed this land, supplying Heredon with force horses and beef. Iome’s father did not keep large stables in his own castle—not like the extensive stables at Groverman. Here, on the green banks of Wind River, the horses grew fat and frolicked, until the lord’s horsemen brought them to the King’s stables and introduced the foals to the herd leaders.

The herd leaders were spirited. A herd leader, once given endowments of strength and metabolism, would dominate any wild horse. The wild foals were used as Dedicates, for these horses stood most in awe of the herd stallions, and could therefore best be counted on to provide attributes.

Thus Castle Groverman had grown to be an important fortress, for this was the Dedicates’ Keep for the horses that supplied Sylvarresta’s messengers and soldiers.

But this late in the fall, it was also a busy center for commerce. The local vassals and villeins herded cattle in for the fall slaughter. Tomorrow was the first day of Hostenfest, a time of celebration before the last of the fall labors. A week from today, when the feasting ended, the fatted beeves would be driven all across Heredon for slaughter on Tolfest, in the twenty-fifth day of the Month of Leaves, before the winter snows set in.

With the beef came horsemen, driving in the summer’s foals. The fields around Castle Groverman had thus become a maze of stockyards and tents.

On seeing it, Iome’s heart sank.

She’d been outraged to learn that Duke Groverman refused aid to Longmot. It had seemed a small and evil gesture, not in keeping with the graciousness and courage expected from the lords of Heredon.

But now Iome saw that Groverman might not go to Longmot, with good reason. Outside the castle, people and animals crowded the grounds—the horsemen and cattlemen, merchants for the festival, refugees from Longmot, plus some refugees who’d left their own unprotected villages.

The refugees from Longmot broke Iome’s heart. They huddled on the banks of Wind River—women, babes, men. For most of them, only blankets slung over poles would shelter them from the snows this winter. Groverman had generously allowed the refugees to camp near the castle walls, protected from the winds that swept these plains.

Still, it looked as if a town of rags had sprung up by the river, a town inhabited by ragged people. Silver-haired men puttered aimlessly, as if only waiting for winter so they could freeze. Women wrapped their babes in thick woolen blankets and kept them tucked under their arms, having nothing better than their bodies and cloth to warm the children.