Derek understood what Tiona meant by “a little respect.” Some noble marriages displayed genuine fidelity; many more concealed arrangements too sordid for a bard's tale. Derek acknowledged his own hypocrisy: he tolerated liberties for himself that he would never grant his wife.

“I can give you respect,” he said clearly, “though perhaps not the kind you mean.”

Tiona was not surprised. Many nobles thought this way. She could accept Derek’s future affairs, but that did not mean she would feel no resentment. Until she bore their first child, however, she had no other intention; it was a noble wife’s duty, and even her family would not support her if she broke it.

She smiled brilliantly. “If you can bring me greater respect, everything I have will be as you wish.”

If Derek expected her continued acceptance, he would have to repay it by raising her status and expanding her authority within House Augusta.

“No problem. Before my title rises again, you will already know the glory of being the mistress of House Augusta.”

Derek was confident. Augusta might be new, but its strength was not weak. Some countesses would have less splendor than this viscountess. Tiona’s demand was reasonable. A political marriage had to be relatively equal, not one side’s demands alone.

Their first formal meeting reached an understanding, and they arranged to meet again the next day. If several contacts before marriage went well, a formal wedding would follow.

Watching her leave, Derek thought of the old nobility’s power. Events in Augusta had not been public, yet Tiona knew them when he reached Pran. House Perez clearly had eyes in his domain. That was normal; he did the same.

For several days he met Tiona repeatedly. They suited each other well enough, though their marriage resembled a business transaction and affection would need to be cultivated later.

He also watched the southern nobles complete their handover. Saint Miller Province was now fully in Locke hands, making next year’s Holy Cross counterattack much weaker. Yet Derek did not relax. Locke had not conquered the province; the Barbarian Kingdom had maneuvered two states into war. Had it truly done so only to buy a few quiet years?

Count Perez and others were wary too, so Derek kept his doubts to himself.

Snow fell again, and the New Year arrived—Derek’s second in this world. Unlike his first at House Ferreira, he spent it in Augusta Domain, alone beneath the thin banner of the Augusta name. Squires went home briefly and troops rotated leave. With snow, almost all human activity stopped.

At the manor outside the city, Derek met the three Palmer sisters. Unlike the spirited Tiona, they were alluring and richly feminine. The New Year was indulgent rather than cold.

As snow eased after nearly a month, farmers resumed work and spring preparations began. Then guests arrived from the Northern Province.

“Third Brother!”

Sherif rode the brown warhorse Derek had given him, wearing iron-studded leather armor, red-faced from the cold but beaming. Several Ferreira collateral relatives who had fared poorly had come with him to seek Derek’s patronage.

Nobles always had a mess of relatives. Derek did not reject such people harshly. Men with ability received posts; men willing to learn could study; those with neither ability nor willingness could taste Knight Simon’s whip. A man ennobled by war would not be endlessly tolerant.

Sherif, however, was treated differently. He was Derek’s real brother, and the memories of this body carried feeling. Sherif had completed knightly training and was no wastrel. As Derek’s power shifted here, Sherif could no longer remain at home. He wanted achievement by following his third brother.

Derek, who had just felt loneliness, welcomed him. He immediately gave Sherif a task.

“There is something only you can do, as my brother.”

“Does it require battle?”

“No. You must contact someone. It is secret and equally dangerous. If you succeed, I will grant you a knight’s fief.”

The assignment was no act of favoritism. It was dangerous, but only Derek’s brother could credibly make binding promises in his name, and there was time for only one round trip. Sherif accepted without hesitation.

Derek gave him the mission and contingencies. “When you must choose, be decisive. I will bear every consequence. Remember: be decisive.”

Even a wrong decision was better than no decision. In that environment, decisiveness won trust. Sherif departed for the east without resting a day. Derek was not exploiting him; preparations had to be made before winter ended and the Holy Cross returned.

Locke’s regional politics had reached a breaking point. If opportunity came, southern and capital factions would surely use it to consume Derek’s strength. Saint Miller had no Governor and no nominal common commander, so the coming year would be difficult. Derek could not trust others, especially when his own fief stood on the front line and Birch Fort was one of the best westward routes.

The Holy Cross might avoid Birch Fort after suffering there, but there were countless ways to trap people. Allies could make unpredictable moves. Perhaps someone would want to prove something at Birch Fort—such as Count Connor, the Sword of God.

...

Sherif traveled east through light snow with a small escort. The Holy Cross and Locke shared a common origin, and private ties between their nobles persisted despite frequent wars. Trade, kinship, and personal obligations continued across the border; captured nobles had even attended their victors' celebration feasts as honored guests.

Sherif’s party attracted no notice. Except during the fiercest fighting, trade between the kingdoms had never stopped. Half a month later he reached his destination.

The man he was to visit, Count Connor Radd, was not usually based in the western Holy Cross, but the war kept him there. His defeat had allowed political enemies to attack him. Still, one failure could not topple such a man; it would take several more before the King made him retire.

Yet Connor was unhappy. To answer nobles who had lost interests, the King stripped him of legion command and retained him at a lower rank. In the next counteroffensive, he could not be primary commander.

“Perhaps it is good,” his eldest son said. “The Locke men are difficult. I doubt the counterattack will succeed.”

“What do you know?” Connor snorted. “If I commanded, I would contact the barbarians and attack together. They gained little this time and cannot remain passive. Strike from two sides, and Saint Miller is likely recovered.”

The barbarians had completed their task of tying down both kingdoms but had lost men and had their captured population intercepted. If the Holy Cross promised profit, they might be persuaded. After a winter of preparation, King and Church had made full preparations.

Connor believed any new commander with sense would think of this, and envoys from both Locke and the Holy Cross were likely already in barbarian lands. The Barbarian King’s choice would depend on his sight and the envoys’ ability. Connor expected the barbarians to choose correctly, which made losing his chance to wash away shame more painful.

Then an attendant announced a visitor. “He calls himself Sherif Ferreira, from the Kingdom of Locke.”

The name was unfamiliar, but Connor had studied the Ferreira name since the war. “He is related to Derek, the northern knight,” he guessed. “Interesting. It seems our northern knight is not merely a good general, but a politician. Let us see his level.”

He did not reject private dealings. One day, either house might capture the other’s member on a battlefield; a name could at least secure better treatment. Connor ordered Sherif admitted and settled back under his blanket. Before domestic nobles he needed dignity, especially now. Before a Locke guest, privacy and naturalness helped conversation, and after being beaten badly, pretense would only earn contempt.

When travel-stained Sherif entered, Connor judged him a blunt youth. That was not always a flaw; stubbornness could be a virtue. Today’s talk, he thought, would be either very smooth or very difficult.