Triumph in the Torn Kingdoms: Jumpstart Duchy, #6

By Stefon Mears

The Torn Kingdoms. Once only a beloved game setting for Keifer McShane. Now his home, with all its magic, monsters, and politics.

 

Here they call him Aefric Brightstaff. Mighty wizard. Duke of Deepwater. Baron of Netar. Respected peer of the realm, in the Kingdom of Armyr.

 

His lands need an heir. Princesses vie for his hand. But war winds blow. And the Pirate Queen Nelazzi raids his coast.

 

Now Aefric Brightstaff must face his -- and Keifer's -- greatest challenges yet.

 

Triumph in the Torn Kingdoms, a thrilling novel of epic fantasy adventure, full of spells and magic, love and heartbreak, friendship and betrayal, battles and war and more. Fans of The Forgotten Realms and Dragonlance, don't miss this one!  The sixth book and exciting conclusion to the Jumpstart Duchy series! From Stefon Mears, author of the Rise of Magic series and the Cavan Oltblood series.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Thousand Faces Publishing
• Release date: Jan 15, 2023
• ISBN: 9798215578100

Book preview

PROLOGUE

Aefric Brightstaff rarely used his ducal temple, in the Castle at Water’s End.

For anything public, such as the high days of the various major gods, he celebrated at the castle’s main temple, along with his court, any visiting nobles, and most of the prominent citizens.

Water’s End, the castle, was so large that its public temple — under part of the massive, stained glass dome covering a portion of the first floor of the main keep — could accommodate more than three hundred without feeling crowded.

For anything private — such as his own regular offerings to Kalinda, goddess of magic — he tended to use the small altar in the corner of his bedroom.

Still, on the first floor of the ducal apartments — what he thought of as his public floor — his rooms included a small temple. Round, maybe a dozen strides across. Cedar for the floorboards, because it was sacred to Halstaffur the Green Lord.

Deepwater gray paint over the plaster on the walls and ceiling. Tapestries on those walls featured a dozen important gods.

In the center of the room, a raised, granite dais, with a round altar fashioned from burnished red calinwood.

Just the right size for private rites, services and celebrations.

Aefric entered that temple though ornately carved double doors, whispering the word that would trigger the spells of his predecessors and light the room with a soft, white glow.

In his right hand, he carried his signature weapon. The Brightstaff. A heavily enchanted six-foot length of white thunderwood — only a handful of inches shorter than he was himself — wrapped at just the right gripping spot with a soft piece of light brown leather, and embedded in the top with a yellow diamond about the size of the last part of his thumb.

Slung over his left shoulder, his old leather backpack. The one he’d borne for most of his adventuring career, and which still carried a number of things he hadn’t told anyone about. Including a certain sack, deep in the backpack.

He closed the doors for privacy. He needed no priest or priestess for what he had in mind.

He set the Brightstaff to stand on its own, just inside the doors. He set the backpack down at his feet.

He unbuckled his dark brown leather belt, where he carried his pouch, his noble’s dagger, and his sheath for the wand, Garram. He hung the belt on a peg intended for cloaks.

He stripped off the pale blue silk tunic that his valets loved, because it brought out his eyes. He draped the tunic over the same peg.

His dark brown shoes came next. They were a remarkably good fit — considering he’d never met the cobbler — and made from soft calfskin. He set them on the floor below the peg.

Finally, his black hose and undergarments, which joined the tunic and belt on the cloak peg.

He mused for a moment over the differences he saw in himself.

When he had still been Keifer McShane and living in Portland, Oregon, on the planet Earth, his body had been softer. Less muscled. And certainly less scarred.

But then, when the great mage Kainemorton brought Keifer here to Qorunn, he didn’t bring across a twenty-five-year-old man. Whether it was through the magics involved in crossing the planes, some other spell of that great wizard’s, or even the intervention of one god or another — when Keifer McShane arrived in Qorunn, he was a small child.

A small child named Aefric with no memory of Keifer and Earth. A small child turned loose as an orphan on the streets of that magnificent city, Sartis. The gem on the Southern Sea.

Keifer had never grown up to be an adventurer, the way Aefric did. And so Keifer had never taken a spear wound here, an arrow wound there, a sword slash here, a trap’s spike there…

If he was being honest with himself, Keifer had never been as ruggedly handsome as Aefric grew to be either. And Keifer had kept his hair short, while Aefric’s sandy blonde locks fell to about his shoulders.

But right now, Aefric needed to feel his connection to Keifer, to Oregon, to Earth.

So he dug into the main pocket of his backpack, and into a certain magic sack down at the bottom.

From within that sack, he pulled clothing that no one from Qorunn would have recognized.

Well. Except for Kainemorton.

Elbar’s Blood, Aefric himself wouldn’t have recognized the clothing before that day at Kainemorton’s tower this past spring, when the memories of his two lives came crashing together.

A pair of machine-made dark blue underwear came first. Purchased at PriceCo, the kind of massive store that Qorunn couldn’t even imagine.

They were a little loose on him. As were the denim jeans that followed. Fastened with a button, yes, but also a zipper. A fastening that hadn’t been developed on Qorunn yet.

Gray socks, but not the soft tone of Deepwater gray. Darker. Less interesting. Fit well, though, clinging to his calf muscles.

Next came the tee-shirt. Old and a little worn, but a favorite. With the pinwheel logo of the Portland Trail Blazers. A little tight through the chest and shoulders, a little loose through the stomach. No shock in either case.

Finally, the shoes. Not handmade calfskin. Machine made leather and rubber. Tied with cotton laces.

Gods, the sneakers felt weird on his feet now. Their soles so thick and springy. How had he worn these things without bouncing with every step?

This was the only outfit of clothing he still had from Earth. The only set he’d packed into the one chest of personal belongings that Kainemorton had allowed Keifer to bring to Qorunn. And the agreement about these clothes had been that no one else got to see them.

Just as well. Aefric had never felt the need to wear them before anyway. He donned them now only for one very good reason.

Andi knew these clothes.

Andrea McShane. Keifer’s wife, and the love of his life. Stolen from him far too soon. Accidentally murdered by a drunk driver, while she walked out of a downtown coffee shop. On the sidewalk. In middle of the afternoon.

Her death had sent Keifer into a spiral. Odd that it took becoming Aefric to pull him out of it.

The part of him that was Keifer still loved her. Always would. But it was finally time to move on. Not just because of the pressure Aefric was getting to marry and produce an heir. But because it was time. And because Andi wouldn’t want him to live the rest of his life alone.

Which was why he was dressed in these old clothes now. Why he was alone, here, in one of the few places that he could spend as long as he wanted without getting interrupted by urgent advisers and well-meaning servants.

He had his magic laboratory, of course. But trying to contact Andi there, that would have felt like summoning her. Like necromancy.

He didn’t want to do that. To compel her into appearance. To demand answers from her. For all he knew, she was at peace. In the afterlife. Happy. Possibly even reborn somewhere on Earth.

But if she were willing to answer him now, he needed to hear what she’d say.

Finally, he donned the most important item. The small crystal pendant she’d given him, on its gold chain. A gift for their first anniversary.

Finally ready, he knelt before the dais. Hands on his knees. Closed his eyes.

"Andi? Love? I don’t know if you can hear me. But if you can, I could use your advice.

"If you’re watching… Well, you’re probably as amazed as I was to find out that the Torn Kingdoms aren’t just a figment of Del Baker’s imagination, but a real world full of real magic, real monsters, and real people.

"It’s not the magic or the monsters I need your help with. I’m a pretty good hand with the magic, and if you’ve been watching, you’ve seen me take down my share of the monsters.

"The people, though. Oh, love. I don’t know that I’m any better with people here than I was there.

"I’m a duke now. Well, technically, I’m also a baron and a knight, but the point is, I’m part of the nobility. And, well, that means I’m expected to get married. To have kids. Heirs, to continue after me.

We never got to have kids. Seems wrong to me, sometimes. The idea that I should have kids with some woman who isn’t you.

He snorted. I can just hear your answer to that one. ‘I’m dead, Keif. I’m no longer an option.’ How many times did you use those words? ‘No longer an option.’ Couple of hundred, at least.

He shook his head sadly.

"Wish you were here to share this with me. You’d love this place. Well, you wouldn’t love how often I end up in the firing line, but this castle…

"I have five castles now. Can you believe it? I always used to say that if we won the lottery, I’d buy a castle. He shook his head. After that settlement came in, I had the money to do it. But without you … didn’t seem right.

"Here though, I’ve got five. And this one, it’s the crown jewel. You’d adore it. The clothing, too.

But that’s not what I need to talk to you about. Everyone wants me to get married. And I think … maybe … I’m ready. Even had a dream where you said goodbye. Told me to move on.

He shook his head. But if you can believe this, I’ve got too many women to choose from.

"There’s Princess Maev. Beautiful. Clever. Remember how you always loved to play the forester class? She’s a forester. Good one, too. I think she might be my favorite, but she may not be an option. She’s down in Varondam, negotiating an alliance for her father. An alliance she likely has to seal with marriage.

"There’s Byrhta Ol’Caran. Remember that friend of yours? Candice? The one you always said was too good looking for her own good? Byrhta’s kind of like that. Models and movie stars dream of looking as good as this woman. She looks like she inspired some of Larry Elmore’s works. And because of all that beauty, almost no one spots how smart she is. How sensitive.

"If Maev isn’t my favorite, then Byrhta is. All the servants here love her — which says good things about her — but some of my advisers harp on the fact that the Ol’Caran family doesn’t bring enough to the table for a man of my station.

"A man of my station. Still weird to think about. I mean, you knew the McShane family. Not exactly blue-bloods. And even here, half a year ago, I was just an itinerant adventurer. I’d be the one advisers would complain wasn’t good enough to marry any of these women.

"But I’m getting off track.

"Next, I guess, is Zoleen Fyrenn. She’s rich and well-born enough to suit anybody. She’s got one sister who’s a duchess, and another who married the widowed king. Her family is one of the oldest in this part of the world.

"I don’t know, though. Zoleen and I, we get along well, for the most part. But with that family of hers comes a lot of baggage. Political baggage. I like her well enough, and I get along with her sister Ashling, but I don’t know if I want to marry into that family.

"Which brings me to Sighild Ol’Masarkor. I like her even better than Zoleen, though, honestly, not as much as I like Maev or Byrhta. But Sighild is a cousin to the Fyrenns, and the Ol’Masarkors are another old Armyrian family in their own right. She doesn’t have Fyrenn money or prestige, but she might be the best compromise choice.

"From there, love, it gets complicated. There are at least four princesses coming to visit me soon. All four potential marriage candidates. There are a number of others, too. All nobles, who’ve made clear they’d like consideration.

My chief adviser, Beornric, is talking about inviting those minor nobles for a visit before the princesses get here. Thinks one of them might win my heart and make my choice easy. I’m not sure I need more choices, though.

Aefric snorted a small laugh. You’d like Beornric. I give him leeway, so he calls me on my shit. He shook his head. I can’t get off track, though, love. I was hoping maybe you could give me some guidance. You know me better than anyone. Maybe better than I know myself. What do you think I should do?

Aefric knelt there for quite a while, hoping to hear some kind of answer. Even if only a small tug at his heart, or an unexpected thought burbling up in his head. Something with the character of Andi to it.

But no answer came.

1

A princess was coming.

Aefric had gotten a rika that morning from Mayor Vagran Ol’Talas of Ajenmjoor, Aefric’s port city on the coast of the Risen Sea. They’d sighted a royal ship passing through port around dawn, heading up the Searun River.

Of course, a royal ship could have meant a king or queen. In theory. But no kings or queens were expected at Water’s End anytime soon.

Princesses, though, were another matter. Aefric was expecting princesses from three different kingdoms to arrive sometime this aett or the next. Raedrun Al’Trener of Hatay. Jodis Ol’Nariss of Shachan. And from Rethneryl — Armyr’s oldest and staunchest ally — two princesses: Brigit and Adsaluta Haltallan.

Unfortunately, if Mayor Vagran was right, the ship arriving today wasn’t carrying any of them.

If Mayor Vagran was right.

He could have been mistaken, though. Not a lot of light around dawn. Not a lot of wind that morning, either. Easy to mistake a flag half-seen. Get the colors wrong. Maybe even the device.

And then there was the question of escort ships. Reportedly, two large warships had escorted the royal vessel to Ajenmoor, but didn’t enter the harbor, where their presence might’ve been taken as a threat.

Instead, once the royal ship entered the harbor, the warships turned further out into the Risen Sea. Likely to stay within spyglass range.

All reasonable actions that any foreign power might take.

And yet, rather than approach the mayor for an Armyrian escort of river patrol ships — as was customary — the incoming royal vessel sailed straight through the harbor and up the Searun, accompanied by two smaller, armed caravels as escort.

That was strange. And swift. Which meant that early reports about flags and devices could not be checked and verified.

Yes. The mayor’s information could be wrong.

Aefric wanted it to be wrong.

At least the day was beautiful.

Autumn was almost four aetts old, and yet the skies above were clear and blue. The midday sun smiled with a memory of its summertime warmth. Even the breezes down on the docks at Water’s End were gentle, and carried the good clean smells of massive Lake Deepwater. A lake vast enough that its far shore could barely be seen from the higher places in Water’s End. Might look like an ocean, if not for the Threepeaks Mountains to the northeast.

A lake so deep that it was said to be bottomless, emerging as its own twin somewhere on the other side of Qorunn.

Aefric hardly needed the soft, gray felt cloak he wore over his dark red silk shirt and black hose. And he never really felt comfortable wearing his ducal coronet.

Always seemed excessive to him. Hammered gold, with a large sapphire in a central triangle, and smaller rubies and emeralds alternating around the rim.

He wore the coronet now because — whatever princess was arriving — he was expected to wear his coronet whenever he greeted royalty. Especially foreign royalty.

He stood at the foot of the pier reserved for visiting nobility. Like the rest of the docks here at Water’s End, this pier was magicked from smoothed coral. Its colors dark, muted shades of green and red.

The coral look was part of the lake theme of the castle itself. Which stood well over a hundred feet tall even before the many towers began, and without including the Seven Great Spires of Water’s End.

The Great Spires extended hundreds of feet into the air. Six of them in a loose arc toward the lake side of the castle, and connected by many high arching bridges.

The seventh — The Spike — towered high above them all from the center of the keep itself.

And so far as Aefric had been able to tell — and he’d spot-checked while flying sometimes — every inch of that massive castle exterior, including the walls surrounding its courtyard, looked like shimmering, dark navy blue water from the center of the lake.

A castle beyond anything Aefric had ever dreamed of being able to call his own. Of course, in truth, it was the property of the Duke of Deepwater. It went with the title. Like the responsibility of greeting even uninvited royalty…

Gulls gossiped in the skies above the docks as they circled, looking for food. At most of the other piers, the sounds of workers moving cargo on and off ships. Shouting to one another as they worked…

Then again, most of them shouted whether they were working or not. At least some of what Aefric could hear were jests and good-natured insults, hurled back and forth by those who made their way into the city to find lunch.

Out in the harbor, dozens of merchant vessels waited their turns to be guided by local pilots through the reef to their designated slips.

All of them had to wait, because a royal ship was arriving.

Aefric could see it now, coming around the line of merchant vessels. A two-masted schooner. Fast-looking ship. Sleek. But armed all the same. He could see a ballista up on the foredeck, and a catapult aft.

No escort vessels surrounding it, which meant they must’ve broken off just before the royal ship entered the harbor. Hard to spot them among the rest of the harbor traffic, so Aefric turned his attention to the royal vessel.

On the mainmast, the ship’s flag snapped out wide in a burst of wind.

Nerves crashed in Aefric’s stomach like cargo dropped through a wooden deck. He tightened his grip on the Brightstaff without thinking.

Mayor Vagran was right.

That ship flew the red narwhal, facing to the dexter, on a background of pale blue. The flag of Malimfar. Armyr’s southern neighbor and recent enemy.

Aefric didn’t need to see the device on the next flag down now. He knew what ship it had to be. The Hippocamp. The personal ship of Astrid Eadredsdottir, Crown Princess of Malimfar.

Steady, your grace, Beornric whispered from Aefric’s right hand.

Good, reliable Ser Beornric Ol’Sandallas. Aefric’s chief adviser, and captain of his Knights of the Lake. He’d seen at least fifteen summers more than Aefric, with most of his years spent in service to his majesty, King Colm Stronghand.

Beornric was a big man, with rough features, more than his share of scars, and a growing amount of gray in his short black hair and bushy mustaches.

But he still wore his polished, full plate armor with comfortable ease, and handled his longsword with swift, deadly efficiency.

If it weren’t her, Beornric continued, this greeting party would be woefully underattended.

He was right, of course. Aefric stood there without his court, nor even most of his advisers. Accompanied only by Beornric, the six Knights of the Lake, and—

Well, if she had to come, better she gets here first, Yrsa said, from Aefric’s left. Better we get this over with before the more important guests arrive.

Ser Yrsa Azenai, Aefric’s general, stood even taller than he did, and looked the very definition of menacing. Her blonde hair had red highlights so dark, it was rumored that to have been dyed in the blood of enemies that never quite washed away.

Given how good she was with those two massive, ridged maces that she wore at her belt, the rumor was believable. Aefric had seen her fight. She made those maces look as light and well-balanced as any rapier.

The strength in her hands and wrists was unbelievable.

Yrsa had one prominent scar, on the left side of her face, where a sword tip had cut a groove from her forehead to her chin, right through the eye.

Healers had saved the eye, or at least its functioning. But it was now pale red. A sharp contrast to the dark gray of her other eye.

I’d really rather not insult a crown princess, Aefric said.

You don’t get much choice about it, Beornric said.

Yrsa scoffed. Malimfar has to be expecting this anyway. They even brought their own river escort.

Well, if they are, Princess Astrid won’t admit it, Beornric said.

Doesn’t matter if she doesn’t or does, Yrsa said. "And don’t worry, your grace. I’ve recalled both the Lake Monster and the Calming Influence. They’ll make sure those Malimfari ships behave themselves."

The Lake Monster and the Calming Influence. Two warships so large and heavily armed they couldn’t leave Lake Deepwater.

Neither one of you is helping my nerves, Aefric said. I don’t want to be the one who starts a war.

Both Beornric and Yrsa opened their mouths to respond to that, but stilled when Aefric raised a halting hand. Probably because he rarely did so. He encouraged them to speak their minds.

But right now, he focused on watching the Hippocamp approach the docks.

Instead of docking right at the base of the pier, it tied off at the far end. Easily two hundred feet away.

As I said, Beornric said softly. You don’t have much choice about this.

Hundreds of feet of smoothed, dark coral pier stood between Aefric and the newly arrived Hippocamp, with its royal passenger.

Why did they dock at the far end? Did they expect Aefric to come down the pier to meet them? That would be against protocol.

Then again, nothing about this followed protocol. No court surrounding Aefric under the midday sun. No red carpet. No musicians.

Of course, Princess Astrid hadn’t exactly followed protocol herself. She’d come without invitation, or even advance notice of her arrival…

Sailors aboard the Hippocamp lowered a gangplank. The local pilot departed quickly for a rowboat to take him to his next ship.

For a moment, there was only the jeering of gulls and the shouts of working sailors from up and down the docks.

From the Hippocamp, nothing.

Nothing.

Something.

At last, a lone woman descended the gangplank. Pale as a noble, she wore a tomato red dress, slashed at the sleeves and skirts with dark orange. Her hair was the same light blonde as Princess Astrid’s, and done in ringlets the way the princess usually wore hers, but this was not the princess. Princess Astrid was tall and slender. This woman was shorter, and fuller of figure.

Alone, and holding her skirts, she walked down the pier. Shoulders back and head held high. As she came closer, Aefric could see that she wore a necklace of amber, and two gold bracelets on each arm.

She was older than the princess. Princess Astrid was about Aefric’s own age, but this woman was closer to Yrsa’s age. About five years older than Aefric.

She stopped a dozen paces away and bowed low to him.

Forgive me for introducing myself, your grace, she said, but I do not choose the circumstances. My name is Ingdis Bodvarsdottir, lady to her highness, Crown Princess Astrid Eadredsdottir of Malimfar. And, of course, I know that I am addressing his grace, Ser Aefric Brightstaff, Duke of Deepwater.

There is nothing to forgive, Ingdis Bodvarsdottir, Aefric said. "Though I confess to some surprise to see the Hippocamp arriving at my docks today. We received no advance word of a royal visit."

Then I must apologize for that as well, your grace, she said with a smooth bow. For a rika was sent to allow ample time for preparations.

It must have gone astray, Beornric said, his tone neutral enough to provide just a hint of disbelief. The rika bird was a very strong flier. And though they did not always reach their destination, they did far more often than they didn’t.

It must have, Ingdis agreed easily. Her highness has come to pay court to your grace, and to present him personally what she promised him this past summer.

She has completed her research then? Aefric asked. Into who at her father’s court authorized sowing dissent and fomenting rebellion in my lands?

As to the findings of her highness’ research, it is not my place to say, Ingdis said with another bow. Her highness wishes to present her findings to your grace personally.

Ingdis made a show of looking at the armed and armored knights around Aefric.

Her highness, however, Ingdis continued, has a justifiable concern that she will be greeted not as the royal guest she is, but as an enemy to be taken captive.

Here it is I who must apologize, Aefric said. For while I, myself, have kept an open mind regarding Malimfar and its royal family — as I promised her highness I would — my king’s mind is not so open. My orders regarding her highness are quite clear.

She is to be captured, is she? Ingdis asked haughtily. "A crown princess?"

Not in the least, Aefric said. "However. I am not to host her, nor even receive her, without prior royal permission. As I received no word of her coming, this prior permission was impossible to obtain."

She is here now, Ingdis said reasonably. Certainly she should be offered proper hospitality, as befits her station, while this misunderstanding is cleared up. Should it help, I myself would be willing to write the explanation for his majesty about the rika.

Would that I could, Aefric said, grimacing. "But my instructions from his majesty are quite clear. I am only to receive or host Malimfari royalty or nobility if they arrive carrying a letter of invitation from my king, or if I receive a writ of royal permission before the Malimfari arrival. Not after."

I don’t suppose you have a letter of invitation from our king, Beornric said softly.

Ingdis ignored him.

This is most irregular, your grace, she said.

I agree, Aefric said. But certainly you recognize that specific orders from his majesty must override even the usual conventions regarding hospitality. My hands in this matter are tied.

Princess Astrid was very much looking forward to renewing her acquaintance with your grace.

As was I, Aefric lied. But my first loyalty must be to my liege.

Why did your grace allow us to dock at all? Ingdis asked, looking at Aefric as though she could see through him. Why not send a ship out to meet us and turn us back?

Because I wished to present the situation myself, Aefric said. So that her highness would know that these actions are my duty, not my choice.

Must we leave at once? Ingdis asked. Or may I consult with her highness, to bring her this news?

Most certainly, Aefric said. In fact, you may wait and leave with the evening tide, should you choose. But duty requires me to ask that you and yours remain with your ship.

Of course, Ingdis said, and bowed. Though I would ask that I continue to be allowed to act as messenger, should her highness require it of me.

Beornric gave an almost imperceptible nod.

You may, good Ingdis, Aefric said. In fact, I shall tarry here for a time, in case her highness has a reply at the ready.

Your grace is most kind, Ingdis said, then bowed again and made her way back down the pier.

You shouldn’t have offered to wait, Yrsa said. Looks weak.

I disagree, Beornric said. It shows goodwill to a member of foreign royalty who is being refused the sort of hospitality that custom demands.

How much hospitality should an uninvited guest really expect? Yrsa asked.

The two of them went back and forth about this for a time, while Aefric thought about the cost of his refusal to host Princess Astrid.

She’d seemed sincere this past summer, when she offered to root out the source of the intrigues played against him in the spring. To punish the guilty, and bring him a full report.

He might never see that report now…

She’s coming back, Beornric said, triumphantly enough to get Aefric’s attention.

And indeed, Ingdis was once more strolling down the pier as though she had all day to make the journey.

When she did finally reach Aefric, she stopped a dozen paces away again and bowed.

Her highness, Princess Astrid, suggests that if your grace cannot host her, she should host him for lunch aboard her ship. Which would give her the opportunity to keep her promise to him.

Yrsa got about halfway through her no before Aefric said, I accept.

Ingdis was good enough to bring word back to Princess Astrid while Aefric calmed his advisers.

Yrsa’s prominent scar had already darkened three shades, a clear sign that her anger was a storm, preparing to break.

Beornric had both hands up as though ready to restrain Aefric from proceeding down the coral dock at once.

Before either of you say anything, Aefric said. We’ve all read the report of the king’s justiciar about the problems Ser Grud and his agents were causing among my vassals this past spring.

Yrsa narrowed her eyes suspiciously, but was listening. Beornric lowered his hands, frowning in thought.

Aefric lowered his voice as he continued.

We know a good deal about what was happening, why, and how it came to pass, Aefric said. But right now, I have a chance to get an official report about it from Malimfar’s viewpoint.

Lies, you mean, Yrsa said.

Yes, Aefric said. I’m sure there will be plenty of lies. But they will also try to work in whatever truths they think we already know.

Yes, but … ah, Beornric said. You think they may slip up and reveal a truth we didn’t know about.

Or you think we’ll officially catch them in a lie, Yrsa said.

I think we may do both, Aefric said. Either way that report will make a good present for the king. Don’t you think?

Yrsa frowned as she considered that. Beornric gave a wolfish smile. Clapped Aefric on the back, but it was Yrsa he spoke to then.

I told you, he said. Our dear Aefric has been thinking more and more like a duke.

Yrsa managed a twisted half-smile and shook her head. "All right, your grace, the politics of this lunch have value. I’ll concede that. But will you concede that if you board her ship you’re placing yourself in the hands of our enemies?"

I must confess, Beornric said, "given your refusal to see Princess Astrid here—"

And the fact that they have capturing nobles on their minds, Yrsa interrupted.

—we must acknowledge the possibility that they’re only inviting you aboard to take captive a peer of the realm.

Aefric’s turn to frown at them.

Here at my own dock? Aefric shook his head in disbelief. "With the Lake Monster and the Calming Influence between them and any escape? Or don’t you think those two massive warships pose enough threat? Not to mention our own defenses here at Water’s End?"

If they hold you captive with a blade at your throat, Yrsa said, just how likely are we to risk attacking them?

Especially with your court wizard still away from Water’s End, Beornric said.

You could close the lake, Aefric said. Raise the chains at the mouths of the rivers. He shook his head. "Anyway, I’m only a duke, while she’s their crown princess. How likely are they to risk her life just to capture me?"

And if they have a magical means of transportation aboard the ship? Beornric asked. "Ready to spirit you and her away to Svarturvigi?"

All right. Aefric hadn’t considered that. Still…

"You do remember that I’m carrying the Brightstaff, the wand Garram, and wearing my blade-turning bracer? Aefric tapped his left arm, where the bracer lay under his shirt. Not to mention the toys in my belt pouch, and, oh, yes, that I might know a spell or two myself?"

"By the same turn I would ask you to remember, Yrsa said, that wizards can be captured, same as anyone else. It only requires more preparation."

And, Beornric chimed in, we don’t know what her plans truly were in coming here. She might always have planned to get you aboard her ship and capture you.

Which means, Yrsa continued — speaking once more as though the two of them had rehearsed a message for Aefric — you might well be walking into a trap.

After all, Beornric said. They’ve had ample time to research your reputation and powers. That would allow them to prepare just the right trap for you…

Huh, Aefric said, quirking a smile. Irony tastes a little like oranges.

Yrsa and Beornric both gave him disgruntled looks.

Or, Aefric continued thoughtfully, perhaps orange is simply the last taste my tongue recalls from breakfast. And now I’m building the association.

Yrsa opened her mouth to say something but Beornric, in resigned tones, said, No, don’t bother. He’ll get to his point.

I should have thought the point was obvious, Aefric said. For two seasons you’ve both been pushing me to think like a noble, not an adventurer. And here you are, looking for traps like an adventurer, while I’m trying to play politics like a noble.

Beornric looked at Yrsa. Do you want this one? Or should I take it?

I will, Yrsa said, then turned to Aefric. You have it backwards. A noble would know the likely political outcomes of boarding that ship, including the possibility of capture. Only an adventurer is arrogant enough to assume his power will see him through.

Look, Aefric said. "You want me to play politics, I’m playing politics. The king may have ordered me not to receive Princess Astrid, but if I refuse to board her ship and have lunch with her, that insult is from me, not the king."

While they turned that point over — likely looking for flaws — he continued.

The latest word I have from Ashling is that Malimfar is at least two or three years away from being ready for war again. If they try anything with me, here and now, they invite King Colm to invade. They risk losing their half of the Indecisive River Valley, and possibly more.

Especially since, Beornric muttered, tugging on his mustache, they must know by now that Princess Maev is down in Varondam, negotiating an alliance for us.

Exactly, Aefric said. They feel surrounded by enemies. I think they’re more likely looking for a friend.

Or a husband, Yrsa warned. There’s more than one way to capture a noble, and that way is far more dangerous.

Aefric chuckled. They can’t force me into marriage.

Yrsa and Beornric glanced at each other, then turned dark looks on Aefric.

Can they? he asked.

There … is precedence, Beornric said. Marriages involving royalty have always been upheld. Even when … there is a question of duress.

"As long as they’ve been consummated, Yrsa said firmly. Which is probably what she’s after."

It does sound likely, Beornric said, nodding slowly. Malimfar doesn’t openly practice the noble privilege—

Hypocrites, Yrsa scoffed.

"—but they know we do. They might assume that the princess need only utter a few reassurances while stripping off her gown to get more from you than the bliss moment."

We should send for some nysta tea, Yrsa said. Just to be safe. Eliminate the possibility of your getting her pregnant.

We could do that, Aefric said patiently. "Or I could just not have sex with her. I mean, you two have been encouraging me to sleep with damn near every noblewoman who offers, but that doesn’t mean I have to."

True, Beornric said. "But the princess is beautiful—"

Everyone here is beautiful! Keifer’s exasperated words coming out of Aefric’s mouth. It was true though. Men and women both.

Some stood out more than others — especially those with eldrani blood — and now and again he saw someone specifically unattractive, but compared to what Keifer had known on Earth, it was as though this world were populated only by top models and movie stars.

And these people just rolled out of bed in the morning looking like this. No special regimens. No professional makeup artists.

Sometimes, when Aefric lay sleepless at night, he wondered — were the people here so attractive because decades of fantasy art depicted mostly beauty? Or were decades of fantasy artists inspired by dreams of Qorunn?

My point is, Aefric said, "as far as I’m concerned, Princess Astrid is no more beautiful than half the ladies of my court. Let alone women like Zoleen, Sighild, Maev. And obviously she doesn’t begin to compare to Byrhta."

"That’s certainly true," Yrsa said.

Very well, Beornric said. "But if you’re going to insist on this lunch, keep your wits about you for any kind of trap."

And bring bodyguards, Yrsa said. Just in case.

Of course, bodyguards, Beornric said, as though he thought Aefric might debate the point.

All right, Aefric said, frowning as he pondered what insult he might give by bringing bodyguards. Who’s on duty?

All six are going, Beornric said.

I concur, Yrsa said.

Aefric looked from one to the other, but neither looked willing to budge. He sighed. All six.

He turned to the Knights of the Lake. Three men and three women. All highly skilled combatants, and all of them sworn not only to his service, but to his defense.

Leppina. Tanned and muscled, with her brown hair in a thick braid that hung to her waist.

Temat Ol’Lazenac. Dark and lean, with that wicked scar across his neck giving him a roguish look. His head shaved as polished as his armor.

Vria Aldellac. Short and pale, with fine-featured beauty, golden eyes, and a natural orange tint to her hair that spoke of her eldrani heritage.

Micham Ol’Talas. Ruggedly weathered and missing half an ear, but with his brown hair and beard always trimmed to the latest fashion.

Arras. Aristocratic in bearing and beauty, but her black hair cut short, and a challenge always in her hazel eyes. The only Knight of the Lake to fight with a sword in each hand.

Wardius. Wiry, lean, and still handsome, despite being the most scarred of the lot. His cheeks were jagged, and he was missing the tip of his nose and the smallfinger of his left hand. In his eyes, the look of a man at peace with himself.

These were the Knights of the Lake. Identifiable by the image of Lake Deepwater etched on the breastplates of their gleaming full plate armor.

This may be a trap, Aefric said to them. But it’s not likely the kind of trap we’ll need to fight our way out of. All the same. Keep your eyes and ears sharp, and your wits about you.

Yes, your grace, they said in imperfect sync.

Let’s go, he said.

The walk down the smoothed, dark green and red coral to the end of the pier to where the Hippocamp sat at dock might only have been a couple of hundred feet, but it felt much farther.

Aefric could feel eyes on him. From the Hippocamp, he was watched by soldiers and sailors. From the docks, some of the locals and sailors both had stopped to see what their duke and his knights were doing.

Of course, it likely helped that anyone who either lived here at Water’s End or sailed here regularly knew that this pier was only used by nobility and royalty. So even if they didn’t recognize the narwhal flag of Malimfar, they knew that whoever owned this ship was important. And yet, was not being made formally welcome.

Crowds. One aspect of being duke that Aefric was still adjusting to. When he’d been a traveling adventurer, he never had to worry about throngs of people watching while he went about his business.

They might cheer him after a victory, or they might glare at him with suspicion as he rode into town a stranger on a rainy day. But while he was delving into lost tombs, battling bizarre monsters, or doing some other thing that normal people wouldn’t dream of doing, he never had to cope with crowds of onlookers.

Being duke, though, meant always being on display…

An unproductive line of thought. So Aefric turned his attentions to the clear, beautiful sky. The welcoming heat of the midday sun. The gentle breeze with its lake smells. All of these things much happier than the notion of committing some colossal blunder in front of a crowd.

When he reached the foot of the Hippocamp’s gangplank, Temat and Leppina closed ranks in front of him.

Aefric looked up at the rail. Archers, a dozen of them. All with arrows nocked, though not yet aimed. The sailors had withdrawn from the rail. Aefric couldn’t even spot them on the rigging or minding the wheel.

Instead, there were only the archers in their leathers, plus a dozen pike-wielding soldiers in chainmail and half-helms. Overseeing them, two people. Ingdis — frowning — and a bent, wrinkled man whose white hair and beard weren’t much paler than his skin.

He wore robes of brown and gray, and leaned on a staff. But he was no magic-user.

The old man called down in a surprisingly strong, clear voice.

Who approaches the ship of her highness, Princess Astrid Eadredsdottir?

At Aefric’s nod, Arras answered.

His grace, Ser Aefric Brightstaff, Duke of Deepwater, Baron of Netar, and Hero of the Battles of Deepwater and Frozen Ridge, approaches at the invitation of her highness.

Does his grace believe the invitation to include a battle with lunch? the old man asked.

Does her highness always menace her invited guests with archers?

Only when an invited guest makes the mistake of arriving armed for battle.

Were his grace to arrive armed for battle, Arras said, there would be no question of mistake.

Enough, Ingdis called loudly, then whispered harshly into the ear of the old man.

The old man shook his head several times as she spoke. They held a harsh, whispered argument.

Ingdis won. At her gesture, the archers put away their arrows.

She stepped forward, bowed, smiled, and said, Her highness extends her greeting to his grace, and to the knights who safeguard his grace’s life. Please, come aboard and be made welcome.

Temat and Leppina preceded Aefric up the gangplank. Arras and Micham flanked him. Vria and Wardius followed.

As Aefric stepped onto the smoothed, dark wood of the Hippocamp’s deck, the old man cocked an eyebrow at him.

First your grace denies our crown princess the welcome and hospitality that are her due, the old man said. Now your grace refuses to so much as attend her luncheon without a passel of armed knights. Her highness might choose to overlook your grace’s rudeness today, but I assure him that Malimfar will not forget it.

The man turned about and went aft.

I pray your grace, Ingdis said with a troubled expression, pay little heed to the words of Arl Halldor. He may have the king’s ear, but he does not speak with the king’s tongue.

I understand, Aefric said with a forced smile. And I know that I … am not a popular man in Malimfar.

Oh, then your grace misunderstands our people, Ingdis said. True, there are many who grieve their losses, and may hate your grace for them. But even they know the value of so fierce a warrior as your grace. And Malimfar values warriors highly.

Then why does Arl Halldor hate me so?

Ingdis sighed and gave Aefric an exasperated smile. Politics.

Ah, of course. The catch-all answer when refusing to give an answer.

Will your grace consent to dine privately with her highness? Ingdis asked. By which I mean in the presence of only her chaperon?

Of course, Aefric said, thinking quickly, although my advisers bid me bring a chaperon of my own.

Oh, Ingdis made a show of looking around for Aefric’s chaperon. Is this person hiding behind your knights?

No, Aefric said. In the interest of not keeping her highness waiting, I have chosen not to send for a noble to act as chaperon. Instead, I designate Ser Arras for the duty.

Your grace wishes a chaperon in full arms and armor? Ingdis said with a slightly deprecating smile. To dine with Princess Astrid?

Of course Arras would surrender her swords, Aefric said. But it would take as long to send for her clothes as it would to send for an alternative chaperon. If her highness prefers to wait…

Her highness is most eager to see your grace.

Then I trust that a noble knight, reared and trained right here at Water’s End, suffices for a chaperon.

In Malimfar it is not customary for a man to require a chaperon.

I understand, Aefric said. But this is Armyr.

I was not under the impression that it was the practice in Armyr, either.

Aefric smiled and sighed. Politics.

Ah, Ingdis said. Very well then. Allow me a moment to inform her highness about the … necessary adjustment to the lunch arrangements, and then I will see your grace to her presence.

Thank you, Aefric said.

Well, whatever else happened at lunch, now at least he’d have a witness of his own.

For someone so eager to speak with Aefric, Princess Astrid didn’t seem to mind keeping him waiting.

On the deck of her ship. In the midday sun. With her soldiers and sailors all just standing around watching him suspiciously. As though they thought he might order an attack or something.

Exactly what had Arl Halldor been saying about him? Or was the arl only part of the problem?

Aefric wasn’t the only one who didn’t care for the situation. He noticed that his Knights of the Lake surreptitiously arranged themselves around him.

Not in anything so obvious as a tight circle, but so that no one could approach him from any direction without meeting one of them first. And they didn’t take their places in a quick, military fashion, but casually. Almost as though they simply happened to wander to their current positions while looking over details of the Hippocamp.

Certainly they had time to make it look casual. If he’d known how long he’d be kept waiting, Aefric could have sent for a change of clothes for Arras. A change of clothes she would have had time to don.

There was one advantage to the delay, though. Aefric had ample time to study the local magic. Accuracy enchantments on the ship’s ballista and catapult. Strength enchantments woven into the hull.

But no blind spots. No illusions. No confinements waiting to trap him. And perhaps most important, no magic-users hiding belowdecks.

Still. How much longer would they keep him waiting?

By the time Aefric finished thoroughly checking out the magic in his surroundings, he could have sent for any noble in Water’s End to stand as chaperon for him.

Much longer, and he might have been able to send to Behal for a chaperon before he finally sat down to eat.

Aefric was about to remark on that fact when Ingdis emerged, smiling, from a cabin door.

She approached Aefric, but stopped several paces away, frowning, when she noticed the way his knights adjusted their attention as though she might present a threat.

She bowed. Your grace. I must apologize for the delay. It is entirely my fault, and your grace should hold no blame for her highness.

May I ask what the delay was? Aefric asked.

Logistics, Ingdis said. Nothing more. A ship’s cabin is not the ideal setting for a luncheon such as this one. But I have done the best I can, under circumstances not of my choosing.

Aefric almost reassured her, but he was pretty sure that last part carried an implied insult to Armyr. I understand.

Your grace is most kind, she said with another bow. If his knight will be so good as to surrender her blades, I will now escort your grace to the royal presence.

Arras removed her sword belt and handed it to Micham.

What about his staff? Arl Halldor yelled down from the afterdecks. And his wand. I think we’re all too aware of the havoc he can wreak with those.

Ingdis raised her eyebrows at Aefric.

If her highness insists, Aefric said slowly, I will leave my wand with my knights. But the Brightstaff goes everywhere with me. I have carried it in her presence before, and see no reason I should not now.

I believe her highness would make no objection to your grace’s signature instrument. His affectation for carrying it everywhere is well known. But I think she might take it amiss for your grace to carry the wand Garram into her presence. Given how your grace made use of its powers this past spring.

Fair enough. It was the wand Garram Aefric had used to hammer Malimfar’s armies with a heavy, unseasonable blizzard.

Aefric pulled the wand from its sheath — trying to ignore the way all the archers in his line of sight reached for their quivers — and handed it to Vria. He suspected she could produce at least a little power from it, given a reason. She had no formal magical training, but she had eldrani blood. And the eldrani seemed to have some affinity for enchanted weapons…

Your grace is most accommodating, Ingdis said. And now I believe we are ready.

Ingdis led the way. Arras was willing to go second, but Aefric chose to. He’d rather have Arras in a position to clear their way out, if needed.

The wood of the cramped hallway had an orange tint under the light of the oil lamps at either end. Aefric found himself crouching, so he didn’t bump his head, even though it wouldn’t be a long walk.

The hallway’s smell of tallow and sweat was overlaid by an unusual vanilla scent from the burning lamp oil…

Ingdis knocked twice on the door at the end of the hall, then opened it and led the way inside.

The moment the door was opened, the vanilla smell got stronger. Eight lamps in here, two hanging in each corner of the room.

The fragrance was a bit cloying now, but at least the room was comfortably lit.

More low ceilings though. Joy.

Aefric wasn’t sure what this cabin was usually used for, but his guess was meetings. It was square in shape, maybe five strides across, and too crowded for its space.

Two guards just inside the door. Both big men. Both in recently oiled chainmail, with half-helms, short swords and bucklers. Two servants on the opposite side of the room. Both of them short and slight enough to be children or kindaren.

Along the right-hand side of the room, a small table set for two. In the center of the room, a larger, round table, also set for two.

In the chair facing him from the center table, Princess Astrid looked properly regal in a taffeta gown of royal blue, slashed at the sleeves with purple. Her pale blonde hair was done in ringlets, and crowned by a golden diadem that featured a single large ruby, surrounded by smaller diamonds.

Gold and amber at her wrists and on her fingers, but more importantly, at the delicate skin of her throat, a golden torc.

The torc was enchanted. Felt like defensive magic. And on her fingers, one of her rings was also enchanted. He recognized it at once. The poison-detector she’d worn this summer.

Princess Astrid didn’t rise from her seat as he entered. A statement.

Properly speaking, she was his peer, not his superior. She should either bow to him first — because she was visiting his duchy — or bow to him in return, claiming the position of hostess on the flimsy basis of their meeting aboard her ship.

Either way, she had no right to expect him to bow without offering a bow in return. She might’ve been crown princess, but she wasn’t queen yet.

She did neither, though, but remained seated. Smiling, to emphasize her high cheekbones.

Your grace, she said. Here I sailed all this way to fulfill a promise. And yet, because of a single stray bird, I find I’ve not only put your grace in an uncomfortable position, but come perilously close to causing an incident between our kingdoms. I trust he will forgive me for this?

How could I do otherwise? Aefric asked. Especially when I must ask your highness’ forgiveness for her reception.

Ingdis made a small sound of objection when it became clear that Aefric didn’t intend to bow, but Princess Astrid didn’t bat an eye.

Think nothing of it, she said with a dismissive wave. I understand how the ways of kings only make life more difficult for the rest of us.

She gestured to the chair across from her. Please. Join me.

As Aefric took his seat — standing the Brightstaff beside his chair and leaving his back to those guards, which caused an itch between his shoulder blades — Arras and Ingdis took seats at the other, smaller table to his right.

I’m sure your grace is as eager to learn about my findings as I am to share them, Princess Astrid said with a coy smile. But I trust he will remain patient while we share a meal, first? We needn’t be so barbaric as the Caiperans or Varondami.

Aefric chuckled, but noted the slight against Varondam included in her expected insult to Caiperas, Malimfar’s traditional enemy.

Of course I am eager for the report, Aefric said. But how could I be less eager to share your highness’ company?

An obvious compliment, but still effective. Princess Astrid looked visibly pleased as she called her servants forward — clearly kindaren now, one male, one female. Kindaren looked much like humans, though proportionately smaller. These two wouldn’t have been tall enough to reach his sternum, had Aefric been standing.

We’re ready to begin, Princess Astrid said, then turned to Aefric. I fear I have none of your Armyrian palate wine.

None is required, Aefric said, dismissing the faux pas.

Your grace is most kind, she said, turning back to the servants. Then we will begin with the chowder.

A clam chowder as it turned out, and quite good. Better than the rest of lunch, to be honest.

The ocean salmon was clearly fresh-caught overnight, and grilled well, but too heavily peppered for Aefric to enjoy it. Masked the subtler flavors his cooks usually brought out in ocean salmon.

The tossed salad served with the fish with wasn’t nearly fresh enough. As though they’d stored the three types of lettuce and variety of root vegetables ready-cut, instead of whole.

Perhaps that was why they added so much pepper to the salmon. To help mask the limpness of the salad. A dressing would have helped.

At least the white wine that accompanied the meal was light enough to help dilute the pepper.

And Princess Astrid did make for a good meal companion.

After listening to Yrsa and Beornric’s urgent warnings, Aefric half expected her to try to seduce him. Instead, she treated the lunch as might any charming, vivacious hostess.

She told stories of riding and hunting and sailing. Of this ball and that one. Of amusing things she’d seen at court over the years, and places she’d visited where Malimfar had trade. She asked questions about Aefric’s life, but never of anything deep or intense. Places he’d been. Foods he’d tried in his travels. Wonders he’d seen.

Before Aefric knew it, the meal was finished, and the servants were clearing away the dishes.

Now, Princess Astrid said with a smile as she handed her napkin to a servant. I am ready to send for your report.

While Aefric and Princess Astrid waited for the kindaren servants to return with her report, Aefric tried three times to get her to start telling him her findings.

Each time, she only smiled mischievously and answered, All things their time, your grace. Followed by changing the subject. First to sailing, then to the gentle autumn weather so far, and finally to the sad increase in piracy on the eastern shores of the Risen Sea, which surely affected both Malimfar and Armyr.

It was the closest she’d come to discussing politics so far, which made Aefric curious. Especially since, if anything, the pirate queen Nelazzi had been less active on his shores since the start of autumn. Which he didn’t trust at all…

At last though, the kindraren returned. One carried a large leather scroll case while the other struggled with a simple wooden chest — well varnished — that was larger than his entire torso.

Mmmm, Princess Astrid said, as though considering the relative merits of the contents of each, even though she clearly knew which one she wanted first. The chest first, I should think.

As Aefric realized the rough size of that chest, he felt a sinking sensation in his stomach. She’d made noises this past summer about bringing him the head of the person most responsible for the espionage committed against Aefric…

The kindaren managed to heft the chest onto the table, but looked relieved to be free of his burden. Something weighty then? Kindaren weren’t all that weak, physically, unless these two were still young…

Princess Astrid herself slid the chest to the table’s center.

Your highness, Aefric said slowly, is that—

Please, your grace, she said, smiling. Open it and see.

Aefric stood for a better look. He removed the chest’s lid and was immediately hit by the odor of pine resin, the base of an important alchemical preservative.

Sure enough, inside that chest sat a severed human head, without so much as a pillow to rest on. The dead man had seen close to three score summers, before his steel gray hair and beard had been roughly hacked short and his head parted from his shoulders.

Clean cut at least.

The preserving solution had done its work well. The dead man looked as though he’d lost his head sometime while Aefric and Princess Astrid had been eating lunch.

Aefric had seen many dead bodies over the years. Far too many during the Godswalk Wars. But this kind of display always struck him as unseemly.

Am I supposed to recognize this man? Aefric asked, looking closer.

There was always a chance, your grace. Does he look familiar?

No, Aefric said honestly, deliberately keeping his tone light.

Too much to hope that he would, I suppose, Princess Astrid said, sounding somewhat disappointed.

Aefric wondered though. Did she actually expect him to recognize the head? Or was she disappointed that he hadn’t given her a stronger reaction?

That is all that remains of Arl Reynar, she continued. Once a trusted adviser to my father. Now, not fit to feed fish.

Aefric took his seat again. He knew what he was supposed to assume from