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the nearby farms filled the
courtyards, feasting and drinking in honor of the Dominus
Christus’s resurrection and the Dux’s generosity. Ridmark thought
it a curious custom, but found that he approved. He had grown up in
the south, in the court of Castra Arban, in the great cities of
Tarlion and Cintarra. There the high nobles, the Comites and the
Duxi, kept themselves aloof from the townsmen and the
freeholders.
    But here in the Northerland, life was
harder and more dangerous. The southern reaches of Andomhaim had
been cleansed of creatures of dark magic since the defeat of the
urdmordar and the Frostborn, but the Northerland was far more
dangerous. Urvaalgs and ursaars and worse things haunted the hills.
Pagan orcs raided out of the Wilderland, and kobolds dragged
victims into the darkness of the Deeps.
    Rich and poor, lords and commoners, often
had to fight side by side.
    And so they feasted together to celebrate
the end of winter and the end of Lent.
    Ridmark joined a man and a boy who stood
together near one of the pillars. The man was short and stocky,
with curly red hair and green eyes, while the boy was tall and
lean, with olive-colored skin and black hair. The man was nineteen
years old, Ridmark’s age, while the boy was still sixteen, but
neither one of them were Swordbearers.
    Few men carried a soulblade at the age of
nineteen.
    But, then, few men had slain an urdmordar
at the age of eighteen.
    Ridmark pushed aside the thought. He had
earned great renown for that victory, but he did not want to think
about Gothalinzur now.
    Nor of the disturbing things she had told
him.
    “Sir Ridmark,” said Sir Joram Agramore, the
shorter of the two men. “A blessed day to you.” He was already
slightly unsteady on his feet, no doubt from his fondness for wine.
“A pity the tournament is not today.”
    The boy, Constantine Licinius, frowned.
“Today is a holy day, Sir Joram, and it is proper that we do not
fight, but dwell in peace.”
    “Yes, true enough,” said Joram, “but we
must be vigilant. The pagan orcs and the dark elves do not respect
holy days, and we must be ready to fight. Did not the Frostborn
come out of the north on the day of the Festival of the Nativity? A
knight of Andomhaim must ever be ready for battle!”
    Ridmark laughed. “So we must fight in the
tournament to prepare for battle?”
    “Exactly!” said Joram. “You understand,
sir. Indeed, you understand better than most. A Swordbearer at
eighteen? Ha!” He slapped Ridmark upon the shoulder. “You’ll have
your pick of the ladies, I’m sure.”
    “Sir Ridmark’s father the Dux of Taliand
will likely pick his wife,” said Constantine.
    Joram grinned. “Sir Ridmark’s father the
Dux of Taliand has four older sons. Likely he will let the Hero of
Victrix pick his own wife.”
    “Don’t call me that,” said Ridmark.
    “Anyway, I think,” said Joram, “that the
man who earnestly claims not to be the Hero of Victrix already has
his mind made up.”
    He looked across the hall, and Ridmark
followed his gaze.
    The Dux of the Northerland, Gareth
Licinius, stood upon the dais, clad simply in a red tunic and
mantle. Like Constantine, he had olive-colored skin, though his
black hair had long ago turned gray. His family claimed descent
from Septimius Severus, one of the Emperors of the Romans from Old
Earth, and Gareth indeed looked like an emperor, stern and
commanding. His older sons, all knights and Swordbearers and
Comites of renown, stood near him.
    Aelia stood next to the Dux, watching her
father as he spoke.
    She resembled both her father and her
brothers, with the same curly black hair and green eyes. Yet she
was beautiful, radiantly so, and Ridmark felt a little jolt
whenever he looked at her. He had learned to distrust beauty after
he had learned how the urdmordar and their daughters could
shapeshift into forms of stunning loveliness.
    Yet Aelia did not have a malicious bone in
her body. She had taken over much of the household