Soldiers packed the parapets, envy burning in their eyes as they watched the rider streak past.

"That lucky bastard!"

"I used to herd for a lord, too. I'm going to see Sir Hans right now: I want to be one of those… winged riders, whatever they're called."

"Winged Hussars!"

"I never knew Ulm could ride like that. And look at that armor: it shines like a noble lady's mirror."

Malleus watched from the wall in nostalgic silence. Once, he had forged many suits of Winged Hussar armor, each finer than the harness the young rider now wore.

That belonged to another life. After Duke Jagiellon VIII fell in battle and Malleus was driven beyond the Commonwealth's borders, he never saw another Winged Hussar. The once-great state had withered between Russia and Prussia, surrendering territory year after year.

A sharp crack split the air. A weathered stone tore free of the parapet and broke in half below. Malleus stared in dismay at the damage caused by his gentle "touch."

He looked around, and his eyes met Lothar's.

"I swear, my lord: I didn't put any force into it."

Lothar forced a smile. "I believe you. The castle needs repairs. We have renewed the keep, and the outer walls will follow in time."

Of course you used force. Who else, with five times an ordinary man's strength, could pull masonry from a wall barehanded?

Malleus hastened to change the subject. "My lord, I can complete a blast furnace today and begin your armor afterward. Our materials and tools limit me to half plate, but I promise it will be the finest harness in all Jerusalem."

"That's more than enough."

Had the Winged Hussar Barracks not restricted its equipment to native recruits—one set per man—Lothar would have emptied its racks. A Hussar's panoply and combat training were worth far more than fifty solidi. In this age, only Milan's finest smiths could produce half plate, and even their work did not surpass the System armor.

Ulm had completed his circuit of the castle and was riding hard for the gate.

"Gather everyone," Lothar ordered.

"Lord Saint!" Ulm vaulted from the saddle and dropped to one knee the instant he passed through the gate. "I thank the Heavenly Father, and you, for this gift. You have given my life meaning again. I will repay your generosity with the sword and the lance."

Lothar raised him, then faced the gathered soldiers. "Do not call me 'Saint.' If the infidels and the powers of evil believed a saint walked among you, they would do everything possible to destroy, obstruct, and threaten him—just as they did to Christ Himself."

"Miracles do follow in my wake. Perhaps the Heavenly Father does favor me. But never call me Saint. I am a secular lord. I am one now, and I will remain one."

"Give me your loyalty without reservation, and I promise you: loyalty will always be rewarded."

A roar went up from the soldiers. "Long live the Chosen of God! Long live our lord!"

"We would give you everything: blood and bone!"

Lothar turned and went back inside the keep.

Fringilla watched from the window, her voice touched with pride. "Look at them. They revere him so deeply. I'm certain: if he ordered them to assassinate the Pope himself, they wouldn't hesitate."

"Mark my words: he'll be a king before long."

Prajna glanced at her sidelong, cold as ever. She made a soft, dismissive sound.

"What are you laughing at?" Fringilla demanded.

Prajna rarely answered such bait, but this time she did. "At someone already dreaming of becoming a queen."

---

Two days later.

Behind velvet curtains, Lothar bent over his desk, quill racing across parchment.

The first letter went to Count Leopold of Austria. Beneath polite questions about his health, his departure for the Holy Land, and the kingdom's troubles lay Lothar's true request: money and skilled workers—bakers, tailors, merchants, and masons able to dig irrigation channels, sink wells, and repair walls.

The second letter was to Count Werner of Aargau: the usual filial report, a sketch of his current situation. He knew Werner was not wealthy and could hardly spare money. He didn't mention that Jogelsburg was a wasteland.

The third was to Baron Godfrey. Again, asking for support.

His reserves remained substantial, but the fief operated at a loss. Taxes from six villages might feed the army he envisioned, but could never pay it. Feudal dues to Baldwin IV, modest though they were, added another drain.

"His Majesty never intended for me to develop this fief: or to raise my own army," Lothar muttered, staring at the numbers.

Baldwin wanted him in Jerusalem commanding royal troops, but Lothar would not follow the King's design exactly. Jogelsburg lacked valuable products and trade, yet he could still establish institutions that functioned without him and developed the fief instead of bleeding it dry.

One of the six villages was half-populated by Fire-Worshippers. In previous years, they'd been crushed under heavy taxes. Lothar didn't plan to continue.

They were too poor to tax further. Many had to borrow iron tools from the castle simply to work their fields. Higher levies would yield almost nothing; better to treat them fairly and keep the peace.

---

Leonard stood on the steps of the Lord's Hall. He knocked the dust from his shoes, straightened his clothes, and stepped inside with the cautious reverence of a man entering a shrine.

The interior was at once familiar and transformed. Fine reliefs covered the walls, and the cramped prayer chamber had become a proper chapel. A mosaic icon gleamed behind the central cross, magnificent enough that Leonard imagined the Heavenly Father more inclined to hear prayers offered there.

The keep felt more spacious than before. All the old broken furniture had been cleared away. Apart from the sparse furnishings, it was cleaner than Leonard had ever known it: no rats, no dust, and the air itself carried a faint, pleasant scent. This was the first time in three days he had worked up the courage to enter the Lord's Hall, which the people of Jogelsburg had begun to treat as sacred ground, a holy site second only to the Church of the Holy Sepulchre.

He found Lothar in the second-floor administrative chamber, bent over his desk, writing.

Leonard arranged his face into an ingratiating smile. "My lord, this castle lacks pretty serving girls. It feels terribly empty. You have no one even to help you dress."

"I know some fresh-faced young things in the villages: let me bring them for you. They would be most eager to serve the… ah, the lord!"

Though no one said it aloud, the people of Jogelsburg had already decided he was a saint. It wasn't hard to imagine other lords who'd won a witch's allegiance using their "miracles" to inflate their own stature.

"No. I didn't come to the Holy Land for personal comfort." Lothar's refusal was flat. In this age, even well-kept noblewomen rarely met his standard of beauty: let alone peasant girls weathered by sun and toil.

"Leonard. What of the task I gave you?"

Leonard's face crumpled. He stammered: "F-forgive me, my lord. The money, the money you gave me to buy the horses, it was taken. Desert bandits. They came out of nowhere: I was on a mule, I couldn't outrun them."

Lothar's expression darkened. He was already counting every coin, and Leonard had managed to lose more of them.

He forced himself to calm. "Castellan, your incompetence disappoints me. Tell me everything about these desert bandits. Then I'll decide whether to hold you accountable."