His Days looked at Gaborn with slitted eyes, nodded slightly. “Good, then you are a man of courage, for only men of courage remember that place. Someday soon, you will find yourself riding through your dreams. When you do, take that trail, and see where it leads you. Perhaps then you will have the answer to your question.”

Gaborn gazed at the Days, wondering. It was a trick, he knew, to tell someone what to do in their dreams. The mind would do as instructed, fulfill the command.

“You want to know what happened to me over the past three days,” Gaborn said. “Would it be selfish, if I kept that knowledge to myself?”

“A man who fancies himself to be the servant of all, should never give in to a selfish desire,” the Days answered.

Gaborn smiled. “After I left you,” he said, and he told the tale in full, though he never mentioned the Emir’s book.

For a long hour Gaborn related his tale, and as he did so, he considered his new responsibilities. By now, his father’s Dedicates had regained their endowments, and so the people of Mystarria would know that their king was dead. People would be frantic for news. Already, little boys riding their graaks would be on their way to Castle Sylvarresta. Gaborn would need to go there, send letters home. Plan his war.

Myrrima herself walked over the hill to disturb his worrying, her hips moving like boiling waves beneath her gray silk.

She did something no woman had ever done to him.

She came to him, put a hand over his in sympathy, and just stroked it, staring deep into his face. Few women had ever dared touch him so familiarly.

“Milord,” she whispered, “I . . . Your father was a good man. As deeply as he loved, so shall he be missed. I will always . . . revere his memory.”

“Thank you,” Gaborn said. “He deserved that.”

Myrrima pulled at Gaborn’s hand, and said, “Come down to the manor, into the garden. It is a beautiful garden. It will ease your spirits while Borenson and I fix dinner. Grapes hang on the vines, and vegetables are in the field. I found hams in the smokehouse.”

Gaborn had not eaten since last night. He nodded wearily, took her hand, led his horse down to the manor. Behind them, his Days rode in silence.

The garden behind the manor was everything Myrrima had promised. The snow had nearly all melted, leaving the garden wet, fresh. Rock walls covered with rose and wisteria enclosed the garden; herbs and pleasant flowers grew all about.

A wide brook meandered through the lawn. In its deep, rocky pools, fat trout sunned themselves and snapped at bees that buzzed through the flowers beside the water.