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ing one of the men handling the winches； and Blaise had assembled with the corans and most of the household in the forecourt。 Mallin and Soresina； splendidly jewelled and attired （a great deal more expense there； Blaise happened to know exactly what fur…trimmed Portezzan samite with gold thread in the weft would have cost）； rode out to honour the arriving trio。
Blaise saw a brown horse； a grey； a rather magnificent black。 An elderly joglar with the by now familiar harp and lute was riding the brown； a broad…shouldered coran of middle years sat the grey with the ease of many seasons in the saddle。 Between the two of them； bareheaded in the sunshine and the wind； clad in nondescript brown fustian without adornment of any kind； rode Duke Bertran de Talair； e to pay…inexplicably…a visit to the appropriately overwhelmed young baron and baroness of Castle Baude。
As the small party rode into the castle forecourt； Blaise； staring with frank curiosity； saw that de Talair was a man of slightly more than middle height with a lean； ironical face； clean…shaven in the Arbonnais fashion。 He was almost forty…five years old； Blaise knew from the corans' reports； but he didn't look it。 His eyes were indeed as blue as the gossip had them； even at a distance the colour was disconcerting。 There was a scar on his right cheek； and he wore his hair cropped unfashionably short； revealing that the top part of his right ear was missing。
Most of the world； it seemed； knew the story of how he had e by those injuries； and what he had done in turn to the hired assassin from Portezza who had inflicted them。 As it happened； Blaise knew the son of that man。 They had served a season in Gotzland together two years back。
As events unfolded over the next hours and days； it swiftly became apparent to Blaise that the duke's reasons for being there were at least threefold。 One； obviously； was Mallin； and a wide…ranging； many…faceted attempt to enlist the emerging； ambitious young baron to Bertran's allegiance in the long power straggle with Urté de Miraval for preeminence in the western part of Arbonne； if not the country as a whole。 That much； in fact； Hirnan and Maffour had guessed well before the duke had arrived。
The second lure for Bertran； almost as evidently； had been Soresina。 En Bertran de Talair； never wed； though linked to an extraordinary number of women in several countries over the years； seemed to have an almost pulsive need to personally acquaint himself with the charms of any celebrated beauty。 Evrard of Lussan's verses； if they had done nothing else； had clearly piqued the curiosity of the duke。
Even Blaise； who didn't like her； had to admit that Soresina had been looking quite magnificent of late； as if Evrard's proclamation of her charms had somehow caused her fair…haired beauty to ripen； her dark； flashing eyes to bee even more alluring； that she might e to equal in reality the elaborate fancies of his verse。 Whatever the cause； there was something almost breathtaking about the young baroness of Castle Baude that week； and even men who had lived in her presence for some time would find themselves turning distractedly towards the sound of her lifted voice and laughter in a distant room； forgetting the path of their own thoughts。
Blaise would have spent more time wondering how Bertran de Talair sought to reconcile an attempt to cultivate the friendship of Mallin de Baude with an equally fervent if slightly more discreet pursuit of the baron's enticing young wife had it not emerged very quickly that the third reason for the duke's presence among them was Blaise himself。
On the very first evening； after the most elaborate and expensive repast Baude Castle had ever seen…there were even spoons for the soup； instead of the usual chunks of bread…Bertran de Talair lounged at his ease beside his hostess and host and listened as Ramir； his joglar for more than two decades； sang the duke's own positions for the best part of an hour； Even Blaise； jaundiced as ever on this subject； was forced to concede privately that…whether it was the elderly joglar's art or Bertran's…what they were listening to that night was of an entirely different order from the music of Evrard of Lussan that had been his own first introduction to the troubadours of Arbonne。
Even so； he found this writing of verses a silly； almost a ludicrous pastime for a nobleman。 For Evrard and those like him； perhaps it could be understood if one were in a tolerant mood： poetry and music seemed to offer a unique channel here in Arbonne for men； or even women； who might never otherwise have any avenue to fame or modest wealth or the society of the great。 But Bertran de Talair was something else entirely： what possible use were these verses and the time wasted in shaping them for a lord known to be one of the foremost fighting men in six countries？
The question was still vexing Blaise； despite the fact that he'd allowed himself an extra cup of wine； when he saw de Talair lean across； setting down his own wine goblet； and whisper something in Soresina's ear that made her flush to the cleavage of her pale green gown。 Bertran rose then； and Ramir the joglar； who had evidently been waiting for such a movement； stood up neatly from the stool he'd been sitting upon while he played and held forth his harp as de Talair stepped down from the dais。 The duke had been drinking steadily all night； it didn't seem to show in any way。
〃He's going to play for us himself；〃 Maffour whispered excitedly in Blaise's ear。 〃This is rare！ A very high honour！〃 There was a buzz of anticipation in the hall as others evidently came to the same awareness。 Blaise grimaced and glanced over at Maffour disdainfully： what business had a fighting coran to be growing so agitated over something this trivial？ But he noted； glancing at Hirnan on Maffour's far side； that even the older coran； normally so stolid and phlegmatic； was watching the duke with undeniable anticipation。 With a sigh； and a renewed sense of how hopelessly strange this country was； Blaise turned back to the high table。 Bertran de Talair had settled himself on the low stool before it。 Another love lyric； Blaise thought； having had a season of Evrard； and having noted the glances that had already begun to pass between hostess and noble guest during the meal。 As it happened； he was wrong。
What Bertran de Talair gave them instead； in a highland hall at the very beginning of that summer； amid candles and jewels and silk and gold； with early lavender for fragrance in bowls along the tables； was war。
War and death in the ice of winter； axes and swords and maces clanging on iron； horses screaming； and the cries of men； eddies of snow beginning to fall； breath…smoke in the bitterly cold northern air； a wan red sun setting and the chill pale light of Vidonne rising in the east over a field of death。
And Blaise knew that field。
He had fought there； and very nearly died。 Far to the south； here in woman…ruled； woman…shaped Arbonne； Bertran de Talair was singing to them of the Battle of Iersen Bridge； when the army of King Duergar of Gorhaut had beaten back the invaders from Valensa in the last battle of that year's fighting。
The last battle of a long war； actually； for Duergar's son； Ademar； and King Daufridi of Valensa had signed their treaty of peace at the end of the winter that followed； and so ended a war that had lasted as long as Blaise had lived。 Leaning forward now； his hand tightening around his goblet； Blaise of Gorhaut listened to the resonant chords Bertran drew from his harp in waves like the waves of battle； and to the clear； deep； chanting voice as it came； inexorably indicting； to the end of the song：
Shame then in springtime for proud Gorhaut；
Betrayed by a young king and his counsellor。
Sorrow for those whose sons were dead；
Bitter the warriors who had battled and won…
Only to see spoils claimed by their courage
Disposed and discarded like so much watered wine。
Shame in the treaty and no pride in the peace
Ademar allowed to vanquished Valensa。
Where were the true heirs of those who had died
For the glory of Gorhaut on that frozen field ？
How could they sheathe their shining blades
With triumph gained and then given away ？
What manner of man； with his father new…fallen；
Would destroy with a pen…stroke a long dream of glory？
And what king lost to honour like craven Daufridi
Would retreat from that ice…field not to return ？
Where went the manhood of Gorhaut and Valensa
When war was abandoned and pale peace bought
By weak kings and sons long lost to their lineage ？
A last chord； stern and echoing； and Bertran de Talair was done。 There was absolute silence in the hall； an entirely different order of response from the grateful laughter and applause that had greeted the joglar's earlier offerings of love and springtime。
In that stillness Blaise of Gorhaut grew painfully aware of the pounding of his heart； still beating to the rhythm of the duke's harsh chords。 Men he had known all his life had died on that field by Iersen Bridge。 Blaise had been not twenty helpless strides away； with frozen bodies piled between； when Duergar his king had pitched from his horse；