“I suppose I could go with you for a little while,” Cresenne told her, trying her best to mask her eagerness.

“Oh, I won’t be going,” her mother said. “I’m tired tonight. You go and tell me about it in the morning.”

Only later, when she was older and her mother long dead, did Cresenne understand that her mother hadn’t really been tired at all. She had merely known her daughter well enough to see that Cresenne would enjoy the experience more if she was alone.

Her mother, it seemed, always knew exactly how to take care of her. It didn’t matter that her husband was dead, or that they had little money. She just knew.

“And I just told a twelve-year-old girl that she’s going to be a widow before her third child is born.”

She felt panic rising in her chest like a cresting river. What did she know about caring for a baby? What did she know about children at all? Aside from these gleanings she did every day, she never spoke to them. She didn’t know how they thought, or what they feared, or when it was time to treat them as adults rather than children. She wasn’t even certain what to feed her baby once it was weaned.

“I’m going to be a mother in less than two turns,” she said softly, gazing into the glowing stone. “I’m not ready.”

She could almost hear her mother’s reply, you have to be.

She took a long breath and looked down at her body, smiling at the changes she saw. Not only her belly. Her breasts had grown large and firm, so she knew the child wouldn’t starve. And even in the midst of her fear, she could feel as well that she already loved this child. Perhaps for now, until she found Grinsa, that would be enough.

At least I’ve found a name, she thought. Kaveri.

She stood, stretching her back and legs before walking to the tent opening. The other children were waiting, and she couldn’t look for the baby’s father until these gleanings were done.

Peering out from the tent, she saw that the line had grown longer since she started the gleanings. There must have been thirty children waiting now, some of them twelve, others sixteen. So many faces, so many expressions, so many shades of fear and wonder and excitement. Had their mothers been as frightened as she was?

“Is it my turn?” the girl at the head of the line asked.

Cresenne nodded. “What’s your name?” she asked, as the child stepped past her into the tent.

“I’m Sunya Kilvatte.”

The gleaner smiled, following the girl to the stone. Sunya. That was a pretty name, too.

Solkara, Aneira

Castle Solkara stood on a small rise of the southern bank of the Kett River, just downstream from Bertand’s Falls, a broad cascade that roared in the shadows of the Aneiran forest. The great red towers of the castle, bathed in the golden sun of late day, loomed above even the tallest oaks and elms of the wood. Banners, one of them red, black, and gold for House Solkara, and the other bearing the yellow and red sigil of the Kingdom of Aneira, flew from the towers above the east and west gates.

The city of Solkara sprawled on either side of the fortress, its formidable walls following the slow curve of the river and arcing back toward the forest to the south. Soldiers stood on the walls and in the towers that watched over each gate.

Sitting atop his mount just to the south and west of the city, Brail could not help but admire the scene. Solkara might not possess the land’s most beautiful castle-that distinction belonged to Bertin’s home in Noltierre, or perhaps the castle in Tounstrel. But there could be no denying that the fortress standing before him befitted a king.

If anything, it sometimes seemed to the duke that Aneira’s king was not worthy of the castle. He still remembered the joy and hope he felt when Carden’s father, Tomaz the Ninth, took the throne more than twenty-two years earlier. Brail himself had just become duke of Orvinti a few turns before and he looked forward to serving under his friend, who promised to be a fine king. Carden was but a boy then, only a year past his Determining, but already Brail saw in him signs of the quick temper and ruthlessness that would characterize his reign. He both hoped and expected that the boy would have time to outgrow these traits. Brail and Tomaz had been relatively young men, and the duke assumed that Tomaz would rule the land for decades. He never imagined that the king would die of a fever only nine years after his investiture, leaving Aneira to his eldest son.

It would have been too much to say that Carden had diminished the throne. He was a competent leader, whose hard manner and fierce reputation served Aneira well in its dealings with Braedon and the other kingdoms of the Forelands. But a king could be strong with his allies and foes while still caring for his people. Carden, it often seemed, saw the people of Aneira as a burden, and the nobles who served under him as potential rivals and nothing more. Brail’s father once told him that the secret to being a good ruler was knowing when to raise a fist and when to extend a hand. He offered this as a lesson in leading the dukedom, but Brail knew that it applied with equal force to ruling an entire kingdom. Carden ruled only with his fists, and the land had suffered for it.

Since his conversation with Tebeo six nights earlier, Brail had given a great deal of thought to Chago’s murder and the possible explanations for it. In the end he had decided that, one way or another, Carden shared responsibility for the duke’s death. Even if Qirsi gold paid the assassin, Carden’s past actions had made their deception possible. More than that, though, Brail also realized that regardless of whether Carden ordered the killing, the king would do nothing to dispel the notion that he had Chago killed. He drew his power from the fear he inspired in those who served him. Admitting that others were responsible, that the Qirsi had used his reputation to their advantage, was not in his nature.

Brail intended to speak with the king anyway. He had made a promise to Tebeo, and he believed that he could divine the truth even without an honest response from the king. But he dreaded this encounter, and he sensed that by approaching Carden so soon after Chago’s death, he was placing his own life in danger.

Fetnalla rode with him, as did a small complement of guards. Before he left Orvinti, Pazice urged him to bring his taster as well, but one did not bring a taster to the king’s castle, even while a fellow duke’s ashes were still settling over the land. With brigands roaming the forest and common thieves on the king’s road, the guards were a necessity. And no duke traveled without his first minister. But to arrive in Solkara with a larger company of servants and guards would imply that the king lacked the means or the good grace to make him comfortable and guarantee his safety.

“Shall we continue, my lord?” the first minister called to him.

Brail turned to look at her and the soldiers perched on their mounts behind her. They looked cold, and eager to ride on to the castle. The horses stomped impatiently, the vapor from their breath rising to the bare tree limbs in pale swirling clouds.

“I suppose,” he said, his voice low as he looked at the castle once more. Not for the first time, he found himself thinking that this had been a bad idea.

“My lord?”

“Yes,” he said, riding back to the king’s road. “Let’s get on with it.”

They resumed their approach to the city, four guards riding in front of the duke bearing the Orvinti banner, a white bear on a green and blue field. Fetnalla rode just behind Brail, and eight more soldiers followed her. They had ridden this way for four days, speaking little save for what was necessary to get them through the days and nights. Fetnalla made it clear from the first day that she felt the duke should send a message to the king before journeying to Solkara, but Brail didn’t want to give Carden too much time to prepare himself. He was far more likely to give something away if Brail surprised him.