The feast was in full swing. Elda had already eaten two helpings of stew and a large piece of bread with herb butter and aged cheese. Now that her hunger was sated and her stomach no longer threatened to betray her, the discomfort of the situation began creeping back.

Mortain had been drawn into a conversation between his father and Lord Ardell, leaving Elda no chance to resume their talk. More than anything, she wanted to hear Mortain say that he would tell her if he knew anything. But Elda had no opportunity to continue, his full attention was fixed on Lord Ardell and the duke.

Meanwhile, the celebration was lively. With the first dishes and bottles of wine consumed, the guests began to move more freely through the hall. Where moments earlier everyone had sat neatly in their assigned places, small groups of lords and ladies now formed, seeking each other out for conversation.

Along the northern wall stood minstrels filling the room with sounds and melodies as sweet as Elda’s grape juice. They had played gentle music at the start of the meal, but as the feast continued, the music had grown livelier, more energetic. It would not be long before dancing began.

The sun had already let its final rays slip through the windows, and outside it was now completely dark. The only light came from the chandeliers and sconces, bathing the room in a warm orange glow.

Elda took in the scene. Servants moved silently between the tables, their arms filled with steaming bowls and freshly prepared dishes. Half absent, she watched a wine carafe as it traveled slowly from group to group. At one of the tables a servant was stopped, a lord raised his cup and received only a thin pour. The others followed his example, and their cups too were filled, sparingly, almost symbolically.

The sight seemed strange to Elda. Only yesterday, during dinner, she had seen the duke and duchess have their glasses filled generously. And not only then, at other occasions as well there was no holding back with the wine. Perhaps, she thought, it was because this wine had come from Varlia.

Intrigued, Elda followed the carafe as it now filled Lord Ardell’s cup, again with only a modest layer. Then the servant passed the ducal table, walked by Elda, and made his way toward the table where Lady Muira sat.

The lady rested her elbow on the table, her chin propped upon the back of her hand. Lord Rowan sat beside her and had his cup refilled, but Lady Muira gestured that she needed no wine.

She did not join in the conversation at her table, instead observing the guests around her with half-lowered eyes. Every so often Elda noticed her casting a sidelong glance at the duke. These glances were fleeting, only a quick shift of the eyes, without turning her head, but Elda did not miss them.

Then, without warning, Lady Muira leaned over the table, said something to the gentlemen that made them burst into laughter, and rose from her seat. With a sweeping turn she faced in Elda’s direction, and at once Elda felt caught staring and tore her gaze away. Her cheeks flushed as the lady approached with graceful steps, and Elda hurriedly grabbed a piece of bread from her plate, pretending she was still eating.

Lady Muira walked past her, and Elda didn’t dare look up again, afraid she’d seem rude. Besides, Lady Merinda sat just behind her, and if she noticed Elda openly staring after a guest, she would certainly hear about it for days to come.

So she took a bite of her bread. It had been sitting there long enough to go dry. She looked around the hall once more. Beneath the vaulted ceilings stood countless little groups of lords and ladies conversing, laughing, and singing. All of them were still eating and drinking. Earlier, Elda had been unable to wait for the meal to be served. Now that she had eaten, she wanted everyone to hurry up. Mortain avoided her, and none of the guests had shown any interest in her.

If she was doing nothing here, she might as well leave the feast, she thought. So she decided to ask Lady Merinda to excuse her and grant her permission to withdraw for a bit. With a scraping sound, she pushed her chair back and turned around, only to let out a muffled gasp.

She was face-to-face with her governess, who regarded her with a frown.

“Sorry, Lady Merinda,” Elda stammered in surprise.

“That’s quite all right, Elda. I was just coming to fetch you.” Her eyes swept over Elda in the familiar way she used to assess whether the young lady looked presentable. Evidently she did not, for Merinda seized the shoulders of Elda’s gown and straightened them, then tugged the sleeves tight and pulled them neatly over her wrists.

“I’ve come to get you,” she continued briskly, her hands still lightly gripping Elda’s wrists. “Lady Muira has just asked whether she might speak with you. She said she wished to get to know you better, and I consented.”

Merinda leaned in a little closer. “Be polite. Mind your posture. And do not speak of anything you do not understand.”

Elda nodded silently, and the governess gave her wrists a gentle squeeze before releasing them and stepping aside. Behind her stood Lady Muira, hands folded before her. Her white over-mantle hung loosely over one shoulder, yet the casual drape did nothing to lessen her elegance.

“Walk with me,” the countess said simply, lifting an arm to beckon Elda to her side. Elda obeyed, stepping forward uncertainly while casting a quick glance at her governess. Merinda offered a strict smile — the sort only she could manage — and gave a brief nod.

In silence, Elda walked beside the lady, who led her down the side aisle of the great hall. They passed the knights seated on long benches to their right, separated from the revelry by the rows of columns that rose like towering trees between them and the din of the feast. The countess guided Elda toward the doors of the hall, where two guards stood dressed in mail and surcoats. Lady Muira halted and informed one of the guards that she and Elda would be taking a walk in the castle garden. The guard answered with a brisk nod.

Confusion and nerves were locked in a fierce struggle, tightening Elda’s throat. Lady Muira had told Merinda she wished to get to know Elda. What could she possibly mean by that? Of all the guests at the feast, Elda was perhaps the least remarkable, and certainly the least influential. Even if one considered her father’s rank, he was only a border baron, a vassal in a remote county. The unease seeped from her limbs as her thoughts drifted homeward.

Aster was a small village at the foot of the hill on which Castle Asterfyld stood, all enclosed by a wooden palisade. Her father’s hall was little more than a great room with kitchens and storerooms, and above them the private chambers where her parents and their children lived. Outside lay a small, walled courtyard with stables, a chapel, and the guardhouse that also served as the gatehouse. The castle was not large, and as a young girl she had visited many greater ones. Yet she had never felt that Asterfyld lacked anything she needed. It had been a warm embrace, greeting her each day with open arms. Its breath was gentle and carried the scent of wild thyme and sage.

Then her father had left. As a vassal, it was his duty to lead the men of their village to war. With a hundred and fifty men he had departed to fight. It was scarcely a week after Elda’s tenth birthday, and the castle had felt empty after he was gone, as if its beating heart had been removed. Elda could hardly bear to wander its halls for long.

So she often walked through the garden or the village instead. There she knew everyone, and everyone knew her. “Greetings, my lady,” Harkling the baker’s son would say, always offering her a piece of bread to taste, asking her to assure him it had turned out well. In the last months he had stopped doing that, telling her his father could sell very little bread anymore. Not long after, he had said his farewell, the king needed men for the war. That was the last time she had seen Harkling, and she had mourned him for a long time. And it wasn’t only Harkling. She had watched many people leave the village.

And then she, too, had left, betrothed to a duke’s son.

And now she walked here, surrounded by the walls of Caer Twyrif, with a countess who wished to know her better. Their footsteps echoed through the deserted corridors as they moved on in silence.

Elda did not know whether she ought to speak. The countess certainly did not, and that only made Elda feel more ill at ease.

The persistent silence did little to calm her as they passed through the garden gates. They left the close, stifling passage behind, and before them stretched the vast gardens of Twyrif. They had emerged on the main path leading toward the fountain at its center, but Muira turned eastward and guided Elda toward the garden’s edge, where the path bent north and they began to follow the walk along the battlements.

Night had fallen completely, a cloudless darkness, with only the faintest smudge of indigo lingering in the east. Countless stars, together with the two moons, both full tonight, gave enough light for Elda to see far ahead.

But the light of stars and moons was cold. The lands beyond the rivers lay silent, and where the treetops caught the pale glow, they pricked the darkness like bright needles above the fields. There in the east, far beyond those cold grasslands, lay Asterfyld.

“You’re quiet,” Lady Muira observed.

“So are you,” Elda replied quickly.

“Ha!” The lady laughed aloud. “You’re right about that, Eldryssa. I was thinking deeply on many things that demand my attention at the moment, things I wish I could ignore, if only for a while.” She spoke in a clear voice, and the Arnish dialect, melodic by nature, sounded almost like song when she used it.

“And why are you so quiet?” the lady asked then.

“I don’t quite know what you expect from me, if I’m honest.”

“I asked you to walk with me because I wanted to know you better. I do not expect you to walk as your governess orders you to, or speak as she wishes you to. Expectations often bring little but constraints. So now, if anything is expected of you, let it be this; that you dare to speak freely.”

“I will, my lady,” Elda answered dutifully. She couldn’t help feeling cornered, and glanced around. The garden was silent, and she could not see any other guests. At last the lady broke the silence again.

“You seemed lost in thought during our walk. Will you share with me what you were thinking of?”

The lady halted and turned eastward, her gaze fixed on the darkness. Elda came to stand beside her. She could not imagine that her thoughts would truly interest the countess, but saw no harm in sharing them.

“I was thinking of many things, my lady, but nothing in particular.” Her eyes swept over the bare fields, the forests, and the horizon, settling there. “I think I was mostly thinking of home.”

“You’ve been away for a long time.”

Elda couldn’t tell whether the lady was asking a question or merely stating a fact, so she remained silent.

“When did you last see your parents?”

The question startled her, and she wasn’t sure she wished to answer, but she feared being rude even more.

“It has been a long time, my lady. It was in the summer I first came to Caer Twyrif. My father and mother were here, and they stayed for a week.”

Elda thought back to that time. It had been warm, and flags were hung when they arrived. The duke had stood on the courtyard with the duchess and Mortain to receive them. Elda had found it strange to see Mortain in person. She had heard of him, knew they were to marry, that she would be his wife and he her husband. Until then he had been little more than a name to her. When she saw him standing there she had felt glad, for he was handsome.

That evening there had been a feast, and her father and the duke had talked long and at length. Even in the days that followed they met often, and Elda barely saw her father.

After the feast she had been introduced to many servants and members of the court. It was during that first week that she met Lady Merinda. Merinda had welcomed her and told her she would make a true lady of Arnallan out of her.

After a week her father and mother had left again, and she had remained behind, alone, in the vast halls of Caer Twyrif.

“That is indeed a long time,” Lady Muira replied. “And they haven’t visited you since?”

“No, my lady. My father and brothers had to fight in the war, and my mother was too busy tending to our household. I had hoped they would visit me again now that the war is finally over, but Father is occupied with the repairs.”

Elda folded her arms over the parapet and rested her chin on them. It felt comforting to speak with someone about her family.

“The last letter I received from them said they would visit soon, but it didn’t say when. I’ve sent several letters back, none of them answered.”

“I am sorry to hear that, Eldryssa.” Lady Muira placed a hand on Elda’s arm and gave it a gentle squeeze. “I am certain they don’t mean to keep you waiting so long.”

“And why were you so quiet, my lady, if I may ask?”

“You may indeed, and I shall tell you. I was observing you. Do you know what I saw?”

“Me, I suppose,” Elda said.

The lady laughed again. “You, yes. A young woman who will one day play an important role. There is more in you than you may think.”

“I don’t want to play an important role, if I’m honest. I just wish I felt at home here, and that the others liked me.”

“That does you credit, Eldryssa, and it only strengthens my point. We need more people like you. It would make the world a better place.”

“Thank you, my lady,” Elda said shyly. Again she wasn’t sure what to say, and the two of them stood in silence for a moment, staring into the darkness.

A cold breeze drifted over the garden and Elda shivered. Behind them the last trace of indigo had faded, and the sky was now utterly dark. Thin wisps of cloud drifted before Manya, and the fields had grown shadowed so she could see very little.

“My lady?” Elda asked hesitantly. “Why did you say that about Mortain earlier this evening?”

“What did I say?” the lady asked, surprised. “I’m afraid I don’t know what you mean.”

“You said his eyes resemble his grandmother’s,” Elda replied, keeping her gaze fixed on the invisible horizon.

“Because it is the truth.”

“Why did you not say his eyes resemble his father’s? That is what others always say, that Mortain has his father’s eyes.”

“Then they have not looked closely. His father’s eyes are different. Yes, they are blue and bright, but there is a hardness in them. They are stern and judging. Wenda did not have that. Her eyes were gentle, warm as a hearthfire on a winter night. It was pleasant to be looked at by them.

No, Mortain does not have his father’s eyes. I am certain you understand what I mean.”

“I… I think so,” Elda said timidly, and fell silent. “He lied to me,” she added when Lady Muira did not answer right away. She wasn’t sure why she said it, but the lady made her feel truly heard.

“That may not be the first time, and it will certainly not be the last. Nobles have a habit of bending the truth to suit themselves. Unfortunately, that is part of politics. But, Eldryssa, I hope you take comfort in what I am about to say. The fact that Mortain lied to you does not make him a bad person.” She turned to Elda then and wrapped her mantle around herself. “What did he lie about?”

“The same as everyone else,” Elda replied sharply, sharper than she had intended. “These past days everyone has been acting differently. Mortain said he didn’t know why, and that he would ask his father. But he never did. And now he’s acting strangely himself, and I suspect he already knew the reason, only he was better at hiding it than the others.”

“But you are very perceptive, are you not? That is valuable, for they say knowledge is power. Let it be a trait you cherish. In time, you will find that you belong here.”

I don’t know if that’s what I want, Elda thought, as a shiver ran down her spine.

A fresh gust of wind swept through the trees then, howling between the branches like a warning cry.

“Come,” said Lady Muira, “the wind grows cold and the spirits are howling. It is time to go back inside.”