“He’d have done what he felt was best for the House.” Jetta gripped Temar’s hand. “But he’d have been honest enough to know that it had to be something he felt was right for himself as well.”

“I’m fairly sure that’s what I’m doing,” sighed Temar. “But I do sometimes wonder if I’m just looking for somewhere to run off to, some way of getting out from under all the duty and obligation.”

“It’s hard being the only one left to carry the Name,” Jetta comforted him. “You know, when your grandfather crosses to the Otherworld, it’s not Saedrin who’ll be asking the questions before he opens the doors. The Sieur is going to want some answers about just what that cursed plague was supposed to be for. They’re going to have to be good ones!”

Temar smiled. “Do you suppose the old man will demand free passage from Poldrion as well? On account of his ferry having so much trade from our House already?”

“I wouldn’t put it past him!” laughed Jetta. “Now, if you’re staying for dinner, you can make yourself useful. Go and get some sea-coal in from the yard and then you can make a start on the vegetables.”

Temar made her a mocking bow. “At once, Mistress.”

Doing something both useful and undemanding helped Temar to relax. He had very nearly managed to put aside all thoughts of the future, duty and conflict by the time he was concentrating on washing the earth out of the last greens of the autumn. The jangle of a bell high up in the house startled him and he looked ruefully at Jetta.

“I think that’s my summons.”

She came around the table and wiped his hands on a cloth as if he were still a child. “Try not to let him get you cross; you know what he’s like. If you’re sure of what you want, he’s going to have to accept it eventually.”

That was easy enough for Jetta to say, Temar thought, without heat, as he climbed the narrow stairs back to the formal rooms of the house. How often did any man called D’Alsennin give in gracefully? About as often as a bitch whelped kittens, he’d say.

He remembered to pull the clasp from his pocket and clip back his hair before he reached his grandfather’s study. He paused for a moment and looked at the gleaming silver, remembering how long it had taken to get the tarnish out of the deeply carved leaves. Temar sighed, remembering how the candlelight had used to catch at it when his father turned back to the door after coming to check on the children last thing at night. Well, he couldn’t ask his father’s advice, so all he could do was be true to himself and his Name.

He knocked on the black door and braced himself.

“Enter.” His grandfather’s voice was firm and Temar saw that his face was determined but more at peace with himself.

Temar closed the door and took a seat across from the old man, keeping his face impassive as he wondered what part all the ledgers and rolls on the table were going to play in their discussion.

“I have been considering your petition,” the Sieur began formally. “While you are the sole heir of this House, safe-guarding the future of the Name must be my first consideration. However I realize I must also do justice to your own wishes and needs.”

He paused. Temar sat silent, trying to look attentive and deferential.

“I cannot see any benefit to you joining Den Fellaemion and crossing the ocean on your own.” There was a challenge in the old man’s eyes as he took a sip of wine but Temar refused to take the bait, remaining still and quiet.

The Sieur snorted and replaced his glass in its silver holder. “However, it is certainly possible that these lands overseas could offer us estates and position to replace what we have lost in recent years. I cannot ignore that. I have decided to allow you to join this endeavour on certain conditions. Provided you agree to my terms, you may go with my blessing.”

“What are your terms, Messire?” Temar asked politely, fighting to keep the relief and exultation out of his face.

“We have many dispossessed tenants and those that remain on our lands are suffering in the present tensions.” The old man began laying parchments before Temar. “You need to see the figures to see the whole tapestry.”

Temar clamped his teeth on an impulse to remind his grandfather he was the one who’d provided most of the ledgers and records and looked where the old man was pointing.

“You see, here and here? Compare the figures with as recently as last year.” The Sieur sat back in his chair. “These are good people, suffering through no fault of their own and if you are to go any way toward fulfilling your obligations to your tenantry, you should offer them the chance to join you in this quest.”

Temar stared at his grandfather, eyes wide; whatever he might have expected the old man to come up with, this was not it.

“We can raise the capital to purchase a couple of ships and, with a little ingenuity, we can fit them out with goods from our own properties.” The Sieur produced a freshly drawn-up list. “I want you to look at this and see if you can see anything I’ve missed.”

Temar took the parchment dumbly and then grinned, as much at himself as anything.

An answering smile took a generation off the old man and there was a wicked glint in his eye.

“Nothing to say for yourself, my boy? That’s unlike you, I must say.”

Temar looked up from the list. “You are suggesting we take a major role in this project. How’s that supposed to sit with Den Rannion and Den Fellaemion?”

“That’s your problem, my boy. If you want to do this, you’re going to do it in a way that benefits your House, or not at all.”

Temar tried to run a hand through his hair, forgetting the clasp and wincing as it tugged at his scalp.

“I accept your terms,” he said finally, wondering with a qualm just what he was committing himself to.

“Good lad. I knew you’d see sense.” The Sieur rose and poured them both some wine. Temar sipped absently, still trying to make sense of this new situation. He stopped and looked more carefully at his glass.

“This is the Califerian vintage, isn’t it?”

“The last year before the Crusted Pox struck.” His grandfather nodded and savored the glowing ruby liquid. “It’s the last carafe; it seemed appropriate.”

Temar could not think what to say, so he drank his wine instead.

“I have something else that I think it’s time you received.” The old man put down his glass and walked swiftly to a long chest. He removed a ring of small keys from a chain around his neck and unlocked it. Carrying a long linen-wrapped bundle, he swept documents to the floor to make space for it on the table.

“This is the sword that I had made for your Uncle Arvil; I always thought he would the next Sieur D’Alsennin, when it was time for me to step aside.” The old man untied the linen bands with stiff fingers but waved away Temar’s offer of help. “I can manage.”

He drew aside the cloths to reveal a dark green scabbard; the sword’s guard was intricately carved but the handle was well fitted and workmanlike. This was no mere dress-sword. When he drew the blade, it gleamed, bright and unspotted, a tracery of leaves coiling down its length.

“Here.”

Temar took the sword and weighed its superb balance, mouth open in delighted admiration. “This is marvelous, Grandfather,” he breathed as he made a few careful passes with it.

“It should be, given the coin it cost me,” the old man snorted gruffly. “Just don’t go using it to chop wood in these foreign forests or some such.”

“Hardly!” Temar laughed. He stopped, his face suddenly solemn. “This is a prince’s gift, Messire. I cannot thank you enough.”

“Make a success of this expedition, give our tenants a new life and our House a new future. That’s the thanks I require.” The old man fixed Temar with a burning eye. They stood for a tense moment, the weight of obligation and the uncertainty of the future hanging heavy in the air.