"Your majesty," Crevan interrupted as Tris greeted a long line of well-wishers. Tris caught Carroway's eye, signaling for the musicians to begin early. "We have unexpected guests."

"Who?"

"King Kalcen of Eastmark—and his entire retinue," Crevan replied.

"That's a first, isn't it?"

"King Radomar, Kalcen's father, never forgave Bricen for the marriage pact between Margolan and Isencroft. We've had ambassadors in Eastmark, but there's been no meeting between the crowns of Margolan and East-mark in over twenty years. We issued the invitation out of politeness, but I never expected them to come."

Tris drew a deep breath and squared his shoulders. He wanted nothing so much as the chance to slip off somewhere far removed from the politics of court to talk privately with Kiara. That was unlikely to happen for many hours. "Well, they're here. Let's make sure we don't start another war."

Tris waited outside of the great hall until Crevan and the heralds properly announced his arrival. He was nervous at the prospect of meeting Kalcen. Eastmark was, if not exactly secretive, intensely private. It was well known for its military expertise and did a brisk trade, but its people kept their own counsel. Few outsiders fully understood Eastmark's ways.

The doors swung open.

"Greetings, King Kalcen," Tris said with a perfunctory bow.

"Greetings, King Martris," Kalcen returned. "We would have liked to have arrived sooner, but snow is already deep in Eastmark; The passes were treacherous."

"Thanks to the Lady in all Her Faces for your safe travel," Tris replied.

King Kalcen of Eastmark w.as an imposing figure. He stood slightly taller than Tris, among the tallest of the guests in attendance, and he was at least fifteen seasons older. His dark skin, the color of brewed kerif, made it clear that Eastmark's ruling nobility and unbroken line of kings were descended from the fearsome nomadic warriors of the far Southeastern plains. Long, raven-black hair framed an angular face. Around Kalcen's broad shoulders was a cape of black stawar fur. Beneath the cape, Kalcen wore flowing robes of deep ochre, and a clavicle of gold set with large precious gems lay below his throat. Gold glittered on each finger, and wide gold cuffs finely wrought with runes stacked up each arm. Kalcen's crown showed a roaring stawar crafted of gold.

The left side of Kalcen's face was marked with a complicated design tattooed into his skin: a sigil, Tris knew, that told both rank and ancestry. Between the gold cuffs and the ochre sleeves, Tris glimpsed more complicated markings. To prove his worthiness for the crown, Kalcen would have had to endure a series of mystic visions and quests, each more brutal and dangerous than the last. Completing a quest earned him the right to have part of his family's history tattooed into his skin, a living tapestry and a testament to his endurance, bravery, and strength. Tris thought of all the new scars he had gained in his own quest for the throne. He did not envy Kalcen his journey.

Kalcen's eyes were so black that it was difficult to see their center. Tris felt the faint tingle of magic. "I would meet the man who weds my niece."

He's truthsensing, Tris realized, recognizing the prickle of magic. He sensed no threat, and permitted Kalcen his light mental touch. Kalcen seemed uninterested in the pleasantries of protocol. Rather than take offense, Tris felt relieved. "I love Kiara with all my heart," Tris said. "I would give my life to keep her from harm." Tris hoped the other was satisfied with what he sensed.

"Even in Eastmark, I've heard much about you, Bricen's son. For the sake of my late sister, Queen Viata of Isencroft, I come to pay my respects."

Tris gave a formal bow. "You are most welcome. We're honored by your presence."

Kalcen had a direct gaze that held nothing back, and Tris found himself liking this unexpected visitor. "Old ways are changing in the Winter Kingdoms. Our world is not the world our fathers knew. Our ways cannot be their ways. This marriage creates a blood bond among Margolan, Eastmark, and Isencroft. Such bonds are not made lightly."

"I agree. It's time to make a new bond from what our fathers put aside. These are dangerous times."

"My seer dreamt of a great storm looming on the horizon, breaking over the Margolan mountains to the South. Even he was not sure of the dream's meaning, but it bodes darkly. Your power as a Summoner is known even in Eastmark. But the living are sometimes more to be feared than the dead."

"Then let's enjoy today," Tris replied.

"Well said, King Martris. Now, my companions and I would take our rest. We've had a long journey."

Crevan came immediately from where he stood near the doors. Tris made his farewell and took his leave. Kalcen's warning kept him preoccupied for many hours, while he received the banal greetings of the nobles who still waited for their moment with the king.

Alone in his guest room, Jonmarc Vahanian paced. He listened to the courtyard bells chime the eighth hour. It would be three more until Carina would be free of official duties. Time passed far too slowly. He felt for the velvet pouch in his pocket that held the shevir. He'd know soon enough when he saw Carina whether he had any chance of getting her to accept the betrothal token. Gabriel's right. There's no reason to think she's changed her mind. She's wintering at Dark Haven—now I just have to get her to make that a permanent arrangement.

The knock at his door made Jonmarc glance up sharply, and his hand fell to the pommel of his sword. Cautiously, he opened the door.

"May I come in?" King Donelan of Isencroft stood framed in the doorway.

Caught completely off guard, Jonmarc managed to step aside. "Sure. Come in. Your majesty."

Up close, Donelan was even more impressive than he had seemed at a distance. His hair was a darker auburn than Kiara's and his complexion was more fair. Donelan's recent illness showed in his eyes.

"So you're Jonmarc Vahanian," Donelan said, planting his hands on his hips. "Kiara and Cam have told me quite a bit about you."

"I hope that's a good thing."

Donelan's dark eyes were shrewd, and Jonmarc felt like an item for sale at a bazaar. "I understand you're the new Lord of Dark Haven."

"Very new."

"And you wear your sword, even in your friend's palace."

Jonmarc shrugged. . "'King's Sword.' Tris made the title up just so I had an excuse to wear my sword whenever I'm around him. Makes him feel safer that way." He shook his head. "I'll admit—after storming the battlements to get in here just last summer, it's a bit strange to walk in through the front door. And I spent six weeks healing my bones in' these rooms. I feel as if I never left."

"Kiara's told me some of what happened during that battle—although I suspect that she's minimized the more dangerous parts that involved her." Donelan cleared his throat. "I'll come straight to the point. Carina's like a daughter to me. I'm concerned for her happiness. I've given Carina leave to winter in Dark Haven. But before she goes, I would know— what are your intentions toward her?"

Any flippant remark that might have crossed Jonmarc's mind died in his throat at the look in Donelan's eyes. His mouth went dry. "I love her," he said, finding his heart beating as quickly as if he were riding into battle. "I want to marry her."

Donelan regarded him in silence for a moment. "Your reputation is not unknown— even in Isencroft. I've heard about Chauvrenne, and about later...escapades. What of the bounty hunters?"

Jonmarc drew a deep breath. "I've paid off the hunters. Tris lifted the bounty Jared set. Everything's settled—except for Eastmark."

"Kiara told me about that, too. I've asked King Kalcen to remove the bounty." The king took a step closer to Jonmarc, and his dark eyes blazed. "Let me make one thing perfectly clear. I'm entrusting Carina to your protection. If she's in any way dishonored, I'll personally set a bounty that will bring every hunter in the Winter Kingdoms to your doorstep. Am I understood?"