The head withdrew without enlightening him.

“Are these people mad?” his squire Jarreth muttered. “They can see we are Hernystirmen like they are. Why don’t they let us in?”

At last, when it seemed as if they would be left on the desolate road outside the fort until the storm blew them away or froze them to the spot, the gate creaked open, spilling torchlight into their faces.

Aelin received another surprise when he and his men rode through into the tower’s courtyard. The armed men who surrounded them wore no insignia, not that of the Hernystiri borderers or the Rimmersmen meant to replace them, and for a moment Aelin feared they had let themselves be taken by bandits. “Who are you?” he demanded. “Who is your leader here?”

A man with a thin, weather-beaten face and a nose like the beak of a hunting bird stepped forward. “That would be me, Sir Aelin,” he said in perfect Herynsytiri.

“How do you know my name?”

“Easier to explain inside, under cover. You and your men are soaked.”

Aelin and his troop let themselves be led out of the courtyard and into the tower itself. The tower’s bottom floor was the stable; their horses joined the more than a dozen already tied up there. Then they climbed to the main hall, where a fire was burning in the great hearth and several more men waited. Here the light was better, so that Aelin could finally make out the insignia on the brooch that held the spokesman’s cloak.

“You are Silver Stags!” he said, surprised.

“Every man of us,” said the hawk-faced one. “I am Samreas, the lieutenant of this company. I recognized you from the court, Sir Aelin.”

“But what are the royal guards doing here?” Aelin thought he saw a few smirks among the waiting soldiers, which seemed a strange response to an obvious question. The Stags were King Hugh’s handpicked troop, most of them hardened veterans of the second Thrithings War. It was even said that some had remained behind in the grasslands when the rest returned to Hernystir, working as hired swords for various of the local thanes.

“The king’s business, of course. Sit down by the fire and warm yourselves. I will tell the captain you’re here.”

Aelin could only stare as Sir Samreas made his way up the stairs. Aelin’s men were already pulling off their soaking cloaks and pushing toward the fire, but their leader was disturbed. What would soldiers of the king’s elite guard be doing in such a remote place? Was the king also here? Surely Hugh would never travel with such a small force: judging by what he had seen, Aelin thought less than half an ordinary company were in the tower.

A few moments later Samreas returned with a burly, middle-aged man who wore his mustaches and sidewhiskers long in the grasslands tradition that many Hernystiri soldiers had brought back from the Second Thrithings War. Aelin recognized the man, but did not know him well.

“Baron Curudan,” he said. “Brynioch’s blessings for this roof and this fire. You command these men, then?”

“For my many sins, yes.” The baron grinned and stretched out his hand. “Welcome, Sir Aelin. I fought with your great-uncle at the Stefflod. How is he? Is he well?”

Aelin clasped his hand. The baron had a strong grip. “Count Eolair goes on like a man half his age. He has only recently returned from one long journey and now is off on another, all on behalf of the High Throne.”

“Ah, yes. I saw him at Hernysadharc only a month ago.”

“I beg your pardon, Baron, but what are the Silver Stags doing here?”

Curudan waved his large hand. “I might ask you something similar, sir—what brings kin of the famous count to this remote spot? Let us drink together and talk. I imagine we can find something to feed your men, as well as to wet their throats, eh, Samreas?”

“I think so, Baron,” said the hawk-nosed man.

“Well, see to Sir Aelin’s folk, then. Aelin, you come with me.”

Thunder rattled the skies outside as Curudan led him up the stairs to a wide chamber with a table and several well-made chairs. A few moments later one of the baron’s soldiers appeared with a platter of bread, cold meat, and cheese, and a beaker for Aelin already poured. The man refilled the baron’s own beaker from a pitcher, then set it down on the table before departing. Aelin had inherited more than blood from his great-uncle Eolair—he had taken some of his caution, too. In a strange situation like this, he did not like drinking something unless he knew he shared it with his host, so he only pretended to sip from his own wine as Curudan spoke.

“We are here because the king has heard rumor that someone might take advantage of the garrison being withdrawn,” the baron told him. “He wants to make certain it is handed over to the Rimmersman as the High Ward dictates.”

“Then why did he withdraw the garrison at all? Why not just wait for the northerners to get here?”

“Perhaps because King Hugh did not hear the rumor until after our troops had left.” Curudan shrugged. “You have many questions, sir. Why are you here? It seems strange that the illustrious Eolair’s nephew should arrive just when the tower was thought to be empty.”

Aelin had to struggle to keep anger from his voice. “I promise you, we had no intention of stopping here until a few hours ago. The storm overtook us on the road. We are headed for Carn Inbarh—I have messages for Earl Murdo. I can show them to you.”

“Murdo, eh?” Curudan cocked an eyebrow. “Well, the seals will show me who they’re from.” He threw back his head and took a long swallow of his wine, then refilled his glass from the pitcher.

“Do not make yourself too free with my communications, Baron.” Aelin did not like the offhand power Curudan was flaunting. “They are from Count Eolair, and he is not a man to be trifled with, even by the Silver Stags.”

“Huh.” Curudan wiped his mouth. “Because he is the Hand of the Throne, yes. Because he is an important servant of our masters in Erkynland.”

Aelin now felt sure he did not want to drink from his own beaker. He rose and carried it to the shuttered window. “Yes, my great-uncle is an important, powerful man. And he has earned that distinction. Do you think otherwise?” As he spoke, he hid the cup with his body and poured the wine into the crack between the window and the wooden shutter, letting it run down the rain-splashed wall outside.

“No, no,” Curudan said, laughing. “You misunderstand me. Come and have something to eat—you must be hungry after your long ride.” But Curudan did not explain how the young knight had misunderstood.

Aelin poured himself wine from the pitcher that the baron had been using, and for the rest of the conversation, which Curudan carefully kept to uncontroversial subjects, he ate only what foods the baron had already eaten.

“You must be tired, Sir Aelin,” said his host at last, sliding back his chair. “You and your men can have a safe, dry night’s sleep here. Then on the morning you can set out refreshed for Murdo’s lands.”

“Thank you, Baron.” Aelin did his best to smile and look grateful, but he was more unsettled than ever. Not even a word about “When the storm breaks,” but instead the plain suggestion that they would not be welcome more than this one night.

Downstairs, his men were yawning and curling up on their now dry cloaks, making themselves comfortable close to the fire as it burned down to coals. The plates and cups scattered about the room showed that they too had been given food and drink. Only young Evan, the local lad, seemed alert. Aelin made himself a place to lie down near him.

“Did you drink the wine?” Aelin asked quietly.

Evan looked around to see if anyone was watching, then gave a small, discreet shake of his head. “I do not drink wine, sir,” he whispered. “I am an Aedonite. I hope that does not give you offense.”

“No offense at all,” said Aelin. “But it is the first I have heard that Aedonites drink no wine.”