“Ah, Asgerd. Come on in, my girl.”

His accent was nothing like the usual Mackenzie burble and lilt; it was slower and deeper, sonorous, in a way Edain had told her was from the English lands where he’d grown: he pronounced the last two words as moi guurl.

He saw where her glance had gone. “Yus, that were interrupted. By Sir Nigel, ’im who’s Lady Juniper’s ’usband now, long ago, when I were Edain’s age and he was captain of my SAS company. Glad Oi was of it, and that’s a fact.”

“Hello, good father,” she said, a little formally.

“And ’ello to you too. All’s well up to Dun Juniper?”

She nodded. “The King commanded us to go home.” A ghost of a smile. “Said Edain could throw himself in front of danger later, but for now he’d put his face in the midden and hold it there if he didn’t come down and have the parting feast with his kin.”

Sam Aylward laughed. “Good man, Rudi. Good officer, too, come to that. Sir Nigel taught him well.”

So did you, old man, and you taught Edain well too. But you are the sort who will praise another’s deeds before his own, I think.

Then he turned to the workbench. “Oi’ve summat for you,” the old man said. “Bit of a gift loik. I was meanin’ to wait until the levy left, but per’aps it’s better now.”

“Ah!” Asgerd said as he pulled back a cloth.

The bow was beautiful, a long shallow double curve in and out with the polished yew limbs, orange heartwood and pale sapwood gleaming under varnish and oil. The riser-grip in the center was from a maple burl, its curling grain promising hard rigid strength. The nocks at the ends were elkantler, translucent as amber, and they were carved with gripping beasts in the style of her own people. He must have gone looking for that, consulting some book or Lady Juniper.

Sam grinned as she took it up and held it out, feeling the sweet balance.

“Six foot two, reflex-deflex, and near eighty-five pound even on the tillering frame for the draw. Oi don’t think that’ll overbow you, you’ve bin practicing ’ard. That hickory bow Edain made you out east is a foine piece o’ work, but you’ll be needing two at least, for a long campaign, and mountain-grown yew is best at the last.”

Asgerd swallowed. “Thank you, good father,” she said. “This is lovely work, and a real battle-tool. I will not dishonor it.”

“Oi can still make ’em, just slower loik,” the old man said, and waved away her thanks.

Then he winced and halted the motion.

“Don’t you fuss at me too, girl,” he said sharply as she came forward with a frown on her face.

“I’m not fussing, I’m finding out what’s wrong!” she said sharply, and pressed down on his shoulder.

He winced again, but was silent long enough for her to probe the muscles along the ridges of his spine with ruthless fingers.