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the snow-shrouded evergreens, they caught glimpses of the distant warning tower, tallest of Dovecote's old stronghold towers. Built on the outcrop of a defensible ridge, Dovecote Keep protected the lands within a day's hard ride as well as the pass to Cockatrice Spar.
    Anticipating the old lord and Elina's reaction, Byren was feeling the strain by the time they reached Doveton. Little more than a village, it was built at the base of the ridge next to a small lake which was linked by canals to the major lakes. Everyone had retired for the night. The Old Dove did not approve of drunkenness and loose morals so their one tavern was already closed. There was no locked gate to stop Byren entering the single main street. Unlike the fortified farmhouses this village did not have high walls and gates. The people expected to have enough warning to take shelter in Dovecote Keep.
    'Doveton looks deserted. Half the houses have no lights in the windows,' Byren observed, slinging his borrowed skates over his shoulders.
    'That's because most of the young people have gone to Rolenton and Port Marchand to make their fortunes,' Garzik said.
    'And to get away from father's dour rule,' Orrade muttered. Now nearly eighty, the Old Dove had been a contemporary of King Byren the Fourth. He'd outlived two wives and four sons. All his hopes rested on his heir, Orrade. Byren felt the weight of this.
    'Come on,' Orrade muttered. 'Might as well get this over with.'
    Garzik looked to Byren but there was nothing he could say so they trudged up the slope towards the lights of New Dovecote. Old Dovecote had been built and added to over the three hundred years since King Rolence united the valley people. It was dark and draughty and the plumbing was terrible.
    Since the peace with Merofynia the great lords had all built themselves modern residences and Lord Dovecote was no exception. New Dovecote sprawled on the ridge below the old stronghold. With its large windows, parquetry floors, gracious rooms and hot running water from cisterns on each floor, it was considered as fine as any Merofynian palace.
    The original dovecote, which the estate had been named after, had been moved into the new great hall. Its ornate cage boasted doves bred for their beauty. Their frothy tails and plumes made them works of art. From New Dovecote's great hall double doors overlooked a terrace. On a fine day you could see Rolenhold. In pride of place two great royal foenix bronzes stood guard, one to each side of the doors. They'd been gifted to Lord Dovecote by King Byren the Fourth, in gratitude for his support quelling the spar warlords' uprising fifty years ago.
    New Dovecote was not defensible but the old lord had maintained his original stronghold so that the family, their retainers and the townsfolk could all retreat to it if threatened.
    Usually Byren would have gone around the back to the courtyard and entered through the kitchen. This place had been a second home to him while he was growing up. Tonight he headed straight for the double doors, too exhausted to delay. As they stepped onto the terrace he noticed the glow of a lamp in the window of Elina's ground-floor study. On second thoughts, he did not want to rouse the servants to answer the main doors. The commotion would drag the frail old lord out of bed and might trigger another brain spasm. Last spring the Old Dove had suffered a spasm which left one side of his face and his left arm useless. Elina could let them in and she would know how to handle her father.
    'Wait here.' Byren went over to the window and peered in. There she was, poring over the papers spread across her cedar desk, imported from Ostron Isle. Either she was checking the estate's accounts, or she was writing the history of the last Merofynian War. Byren had no trouble admitting Elina's scholarship surpassed his.
    Her midnight hair and moon-pale skin gleamed in the lamplight. She was beautiful, with her wide cheekbones and tilted black eyes, but it was