Chapter One

The summer court at Castle Saravar was breathtaking in its splendor. An exquisite feast for the senses—as long as one ignored the crowded accommodations, the stifling heat, and the quivering tension beneath every laugh. A chance for the most elegant and powerful byr to exchange gossip and be entertained by the King’s Tournament, while also hoping to impress the king so desperately and obviously that they might as well have gone onto all fours in front of him to show him how receptive they were.

In the day since the king and his entourage had settled in, the assembled nobles had done just about everything but that, although it was likely only a matter of time until one of them tried it. This despite, or perhaps because of, the change to this year’s summer court—the arrival of the king’s potential consorts and their families as King Byr Domvoda had finally decided to see to the business of heirs.

Saravar was not the largest of Domvoda’s estates, but it was the oldest as well as the nearest to the tournament grounds. Tradition demanded the King’s Tournament be held there, the one tradition it seemed Domvoda would follow even as many more ancient ones had fallen from favor. Perhaps he was trying to accommodate the Potentials, as Fox had privately dubbed them, since two of them were from provinces far away from the capital and might revere traditions Domvoda did not. One of his advisors might have convinced Domvoda that ancient rituals still held power. Or perhaps Domvoda had never considered the matter one way or the other and so didn’t realize that some might expect the king to take part in the King’s Tournament, especially this year, with breedings and matings on everyone’s minds. But Fox supposed it was in poor taste to remind the king of passionate rituals of the past when he was going about a more practical courtship with only the pretense of affection, so no one had mentioned it.

At least, it was in poor taste among the byr. The lower classes never had a problem calling a fuck a fuck or a business arrangement a business arrangement. It might not even be the habit of all the byr; Fox only really knew the nobles who attended to and followed the king. But thinking on that in detail would make him want to be fair to the byr, something Fox generally tried to avoid.

He lightly strummed his lute, hinting at melodies without sticking to one, his head down to let whispers and gossip flow around him. His expression was calm, his tail still. He gave no indication that he was listening to the speculation. All part of the game, as surely as everyone pretending that Domvoda was enamored of any of the Potentials. Anyone here with any sense should assume everyone was listening to what was said and to whom.

Fox recognized most of the assembled byr from either the capital or past tournaments. He had been brought to the last three summer courts along with the rest of Domvoda’s usual entourage and didn’t think he imagined the irritation from some of the byr to see him here again or the surprise on the faces of some others.

His stomach tightened uncomfortably. Fox nearly twitched his tail but controlled himself in time, leaving his tail gracefully curled in the air behind his shoulder; Daffodil-in-the-Wind, a classic position.

Every summer, the king’s usual court and anyone else invited to attend the King’s Tournament came to Saravar for several weeks, perhaps a month, before moving on to one of the pleasure castles that lined the Valta, where cool river breezes made what was left of the summer bearable, or heading back to the capital if something urgently needed Domvoda’s attention. Or, once, to one of the stronger fortresses, when a dragon had threatened much of the countryside until a complement of older knights had finally forced it to flee.

This summer’s tournament was the largest yet and the receiving rooms at Saravar reflected that. Many of the doors had been thrown open to let in sunshine and provide a view of one of the castle’s many gardens—and perhaps also give the crowd some fresh air. Anyone could have left the receiving rooms to walk outside, but none would dare step out to get a closer look at any bushes or fruit trees while the king remained on the raised dais that put him a step above the rest of the glittering byr. If birds darted to and fro in the garden just a few steps away, the sounds they made were drowned out by excited chatter about possible marriages and the expected brutality of the tournament.

Tournaments were an ancient practice, occurring every summer and early fall in Kaska and its neighboring countries since the days of near-constant beast attacks and the wars that had formed this part of the world. The tournaments might have even occurred in some form since before Suluskin Hadi, the fabled empire, although the more studiously inclined byr seemed to think the empire had existed solely as a story. Fox wouldn’t know; he’d never heard of it until coming to court. Long-dead or imaginary empires were not relevant to the lives of farmers.

The tournaments were mostly contests of skill now, a chance for nobles and the knights among them to meet and share accomplishments. Many a king had demonstrated their might at the summer tournaments here, showing off for lovers, or soon-to-be lovers, or, in the very old days, the mate who might bear for them.

…Or the one they wished to bear for, although that was rarer, kings being kings, and extremely unlikely this year, Domvoda being Domvoda.

Without ceasing his strumming, Fox glanced over to the other side of the dais, where Domvoda was seated on the room’s only chair, a carved bench seat of dark wood, with a cushioned armrest to allow him to lounge against one side while draping his tail over the other. The sunshine from outside hit the blue-gray of the triangular tip of his tail, making it gleam brighter than the crushed shell inlaid into the wood of his seat. The shell was vivid purple and green, the color of gems, although far more expensive than mere amethysts and emeralds, yet it was nothing to the stormy-sky brilliance of Domvoda’s tail and the tips of his ears.

Hopeful receptives fluttered before him, curling their tails to show off chains of gold wrapped around the thick bases or perhaps going all the way down the tapered length to each tail tip. Others stretched their necks to better display the necklaces of jewels and precious metals currently decorating their unmarred, unbitten skin. The Potentials had not arrived yet, so some byr were seizing this chance to show Domvoda that they would make better consorts, or at least more adventurous bedpartners. That they would, of course, also welcome any favors Domvoda might bestow upon them went unsaid along with anything about tradition.

Domvoda looked bored, although since he had not stopped any of the fluttering, Fox assumed he enjoyed it.

Byr Domvoda Alkano Drade et micinos rested his head on one hand, leaving his other hand splayed over a solid thigh. Hair of dark brown fell in glossy waves over his shoulders. His eyes were heavy-lidded, as though he could barely keep them open. His mouth was full and unpainted, yet so rosy a red that would many would have assumed him soft or giving and would have liked to have seen it shining with seed or slick. The red drew the eye despite the warmth of his skin tone, which was several shades darker than Fox’s paleness and lit from beneath with a sort of a glow, like light shining on an opal. His doublet was the color of a winter storm, and short, reaching below Domvoda’s hips when the king stood, but woven with threads of silver. His breeches reached his knees, and the legs beneath them were concealed by hose despite the warm weather. The short boots were a surprise, but Domvoda must intend to walk outside later.

He wore no adornments. He rarely did.

Behind him, where the dais ended on one side, stood several of his advisors and favorites as well as two guards and two experienced knights; the knights tall and broad even without the armor that seemed to make them double in size. The guards, from families who had served as guards for generations, nearly disappeared from view in their garments of brown. Perhaps that was the point, so the byr might forget they were there, unlike the knights, who were present because Domvoda wanted them seen, although other than their size, there was nothing about them to indicate they were knights. They would not wear armor or carry weapons in the king’s receiving rooms without reason, and so should have looked like any of the other byr.

They did not, and it was not because they did not glitter, or flutter, or dress to show off the gleam of their tail tips or ears. Fox didn’t know why they didn’t, not even after years of observing them. They were knights, yes, but they were byr. Knights came from the noble class; forever above the soldiers who sometimes assisted them. They were not expected to do battle in the king’s receiving rooms or at court. They were not even armed, not really, not enough to do anything should a dragon swoop in, so they could have draped themselves in jewelry or fine touches as suited their tastes and preferences. One had hoops in her ruby-red-tipped ears, but that was all. The other wore no jewelry to make him stand out.

But some did not need the assistance of glittery rocks to draw eyes.

Fox’s gaze caught on a white surcoat, then rose to where most of an ear should have been before he forcibly returned his attention to the king, the bee before so many eager flowers.

One of the eager flowers was speaking. Fox heard the end of what must have been meant as a quiet aside, if only the crowd had not chosen that moment to fall silent.

“Niqsi is a backwoods province. It won’t take much to impress them. The Ovitos creature will probably be on their back within….” The unfortunate byr, Byr Flieric Tilviks et… something Fox could not remember offhand because the byr was new to the king’s court, trailed off as he realized his words had been overheard. He turned toward the dais and the king, giving as much away with that as with the careless way he raised his tail straight up with surprise and then forced it to relax; Startled Cat to Bending Willow, much too quickly.

A titter followed that, deliberately not stifled.

Everyone in these rooms was thinking something similar about Domvoda’s as-yet-unseen potential consorts, but few would say any of it out loud, and certainly not here. If Domvoda ended up choosing that fertile from Niqsi, word of this would certainly get to him. People would be more than happy to share it. But undoubtedly worse to Byr Flieric in that moment was finding Domvoda’s gaze on him. Domvoda’s expression was possibly just lazy interest, but he’d remember the remark more likely than not. Whether or not he actually cared was another matter.

Domvoda’s tail moved not at all. “You’ve stopped, my clever Fox.”

In the silence, he didn’t have to raise his voice.

Fox did not give a start, although he glanced down at his motionless hands in surprise before immediately beginning to play. Slowly, conversation resumed around him. He did not look to see what Byr Flieric did.

When Domvoda noticed that Fox was playing Daylan the Fool, he smiled, and part of Fox’s tension eased away to make his fingers light over the strings. Some of the others likely noticed too, including Byr Flieric. Daylan the Fool was a pleasant enough song for anyone not prone to speaking without thinking. Daylan comes to no harm by the end, aside from some embarrassment. But the point was taken by the others in the receiving rooms, including the unfortunate byr. Fox nearly felt sorry for him, but the Clever Fox must be the Clever Fox or suffer the same fate.

“Now, now,” he heard Domvoda say, pitying and cool, “no need to be upset, gentle byr. It’s already forgotten.”

Fox did not look up to see the knowing glances exchanged by the other byr. He let the song end without extending it, slipping into something new and inoffensive to hopefully let the moment pass and truly be forgotten.

He kept to newer songs and music currently popular around the capital. It hadn’t been ordered but if no one here was going to speak of tradition, then Fox was not going to remind them with old ballads and passion songs.

His stomach rumbled. He’d been in too much of a hurry that morning to dress and answer the king’s call to take the time to eat, but there would be no meal for as long as his presence was required here. He also had not slept well, too weary from travel to sleep, as sometimes happened. However, thinking of it did nothing to help, so Fox focused on the music, letting that soothe him as much as it could. Then, when he knew it was better to keep an eye on the byr around him than continue to ignore them, he raised his head again.

Most here were from the capital, wearing capital fashions as Fox was, although unlike Fox, they were in gems and used the finest fabrics for their long or short doublets, worn belted and unbelted, with loose breeches fixed below the knee with ties or ribbons and then bright hose to cover their lower legs. Some wore mantles over their shoulders, but that seemed a ridiculous choice in the heat no matter how expensive the cloth. A few had chosen vals—loosely wrapped lengths of fabric worn around their waists over their breeches or without breeches entirely; a traditional look that not even Domvoda’s tastes could eliminate. Particularly in the summer, the skirts would be cooler. Vals, whether tied or belted, also kept tails pointed downward, forcing them to stillness and thus revealing very little.

But vals or breeches, long or short, showed the ends of all tails, iridescent and vibrant in the light, much like the tips of each pointed ear, and for some, the toes and fingertips as well. Ear and tail tips shined like fish scales—or dragon scales, although not even the King’s Fox was bold enough to make that comparison out loud. It was better to say they were like gems, or colored glass, or the jewelry made from the crushed shells of the great beasts’ eggs.

There was plenty of that sort of finery on display as well. If every byr present was saving their best for the tournament itself, they were wearing close to their best now to impress each other, especially those more inclined to be receptive, which meant they were nearly dripping with adornments, as their holes would surely drip if Domvoda were to breed them.

Fox suppressed a small, scoffing laugh and skipped the closing notes of the song he’d been playing to do a bit from The Bees Are Buzzing, which, of course, was not really about bees, spread-open blossoms, or sticky honey, no matter what the lyrics might be.

Regardless of whether or not they wanted children, some enjoyed playing the role of a fertile more than anything else and made that preference clear with their attire. Some didn’t care either way, fucking and dressing however they pleased. And some, like the king, did not acknowledge how they might slick up in the heat of the moment and would never dream of offering up their hole. Some others simply liked to keep their inclinations private.

Fox’s preferences were known, or at least assumed, so the fact that he could not afford jewelry and finer adornments was not of much importance. He had decided to use this to his advantage, keeping his limited coin for better uses and daring a single a byr to mention his lack of decoration by flaunting his bare ears and tail before them, displaying his untouched throat quite openly, going so far today as to leave his doublet unlaced at the top.

They might sneer, but they still imagined him on their knots.

The Fox needed no adornments to make others want him, though he was more than fond of a good knotting. He shifted slightly to ease the pressure on his feet from standing for so long, then adjusted the position of his tail, lowering it to fall to his calves, then curling just the tip: The Idle Question.

Fox was not byr, but he had learned their mannerisms better than most of them had, Byr Flieric included. His slippers were not especially comfortable but they were lovely. White and embroidered in pink and red, they were well-suited to his hose, which were, naturally, embroidered with scampering foxes. That had cost a great deal more than Fox would have liked, but the effect was magnificent. The hose was secured with ribbons of the same red as his doublet, which was longer and belted, although he had also paid for wonderfully puffed sleeves with hints of pink. The sort of colors that enhanced his shining, rosy tail tip and the pale golden strawberry of his curls.

He should have looked like a confection, and perhaps did, his thin linen undershirt deliberately peeking through his unlaced doublet. He had a generous mouth that tricked many into looking away from his sharp eyes. A gaze like a fox, the king had once said, and had not been the first to do so. Fox was plump enough for a partner to grip him well, which many liked in a bearer—not that Fox had any inclinations there. He liked to play a bearer, not be one.

He idly wondered if the Potentials had differing opinions, if they would dutifully bear if their families and Domvoda asked it of them. He supposed they must be willing to, or why come here to indulge the king’s whims? They might be interested in power of their own, both for their families and for themselves and thought the trade-off worth it. Domvoda was not as generous or as lasting with his favor as they might hope, but an official consort would have some privileges. Perhaps Domvoda might even meet his match. Although Fox didn’t want to think on that, or what changes would have to be made to make the court more suited to the tastes of a new consort. He instead wondered about when each family of the Potentials might appear.

He hoped they all decided to arrive fashionably late and showed up at the same time, each family making the same dramatic entrance. Perhaps they would have to squeeze through the castle gates together with their servants and baggage, all of them in their best clothing and jewels to enhance their fertile splendor.

“The Fox finds something amusing and won’t share it with us?” a voice called melodiously from among the assembled byr.

Fox realized he had been smiling too late to pretend he hadn’t been. He made his smile wider, as if he didn’t mind not having even his thoughts for himself, and raised his chin without disturbing the length of soft curls arranged over one shoulder. A deceptively simple hairstyle he had adopted back in the capital, which many byr had taken to wearing since.

“I wouldn’t want to trouble any of the byr before me,” Fox remarked mildly, returning his attention to his music, “with thoughts they might not understand.”

Domvoda laughed softly to himself before anyone could attempt a reply.

Fox’s stomach tightened another degree. It would resemble the bows in his ribbons soon. But he ducked his head before turning toward the king. Fox kept his smile in place, which was slightly easier to do if Domvoda was actually pleased, although he did not quite meet the king’s eyes.

“He bites today.” Domvoda still seemed amused. Fox wondered if Domvoda’s future consort would be, and the skin at the back of his neck grew cold as his stomach twisted and tightened further; a feeling he had lived with for many years, usually not so difficult to ignore. He wouldn’t be able to push it aside for much longer, although he could at least keep his head up for the next few hours.

“Do I bite, my king?” Fox asked evenly, glancing to the crowd. “I was trying to be gentle.”

Domvoda laughed again. Despite himself, Fox flushed to have pleased him, some of his anxiety slipping away.

Fox glanced at the crowd, offering a grin to those who had been hoping Domvoda would chastise him or perhaps finally banish Fox from the court altogether so they wouldn’t have to deal with the smart mouth of someone not a byr. Fox the clown, or the King’s Fox, or sometimes Fox the presumptuous tart. But not Byr Fox, which was what mattered most.

Fox had been called Fox long before he had ever been brought to the capital and the king’s court, but he didn’t think that truth would interest them.

One of their own, a quite talented poet despite being noble, had composed a poem about an eager fox presenting itself to anyone who offered it a morsel. Fox very likely had not been intended to hear the poem, but of course Domvoda had, and had insisted on having it recited with Fox in the room. Fox had responded the only way he could; by setting it to music and playing it often. He did so now, quietly, hoping the conversation would turn to other things. Which it did, although the others were biding their time. They knew as well as Fox did that the selection of a consort and the resulting disruption in the royal household might very well spell the end of the Fox’s presence among them.

Domvoda would almost certainly not be faithful, and his consort might not either once heirs had been dealt with, but all the same, the new spouse would likely not care for Fox’s wit or his musical tastes. Or perhaps they would have servants and friends pretty enough to keep Domvoda distracted and remind him he had no need to pay for and house a street musician and sometimes lover. The joke of Fox’s presence would no longer be amusing.

Fox was already far from the royal chambers and had been for some time, a relief as well as something else to make him keep a nervous eye on the king. Although at least Fox was not the only one fretting over the changes. More than one courtier was going wind up on the other side of closed doors soon enough.

It was already happening to some. Saravar did not have much space to spare during the yearly tournament, and even more guests were expected to arrive in addition to the Potentials and their families and servants. More knights would ride in soon, some bringing their servants. Many besides Fox had their place at court on their minds.

“Byr Tana anticipated this summer’s crowding, wise fellow, and has brought hunting tents so that his people can sleep outside the castle.” This was whispered but Fox heard well enough. He was perhaps meant to. “But some have never had difficulty finding a bed.”

They had the misfortune of saying that too loudly—and also perhaps Fox stopped playing so that the sound of malice would travel.

The words and the implied insult in them carried beyond Fox to the dais. An expectant quiet followed; the byr waiting to see the king react before they would. The speaker might have been sweating, but that was not Fox’s concern, which was the very real possibility that Domvoda would offer no remark in Fox’s defense because he did not feel the need or because it was more amusing to leave Fox to face the beasts alone.

“On the matter of housing,” a new voice cut through the silence, making Fox shiver, “the guardian of the estate assures me there will be room enough. Her staff are working on it even now. The master of the stables assures me of the same for the horses, although the issue of summer storms still looms.”

Nearly everyone in the room turned toward the edge of the dais, where the Dragonslayer had not left his position at the king’s side or indeed even looked at anyone else but Domvoda. Domvoda flicked his tail restlessly, irritated at either the problem of logistics for so many guests or the reminder that not even the king could control the weather. Probably the latter. Domvoda, though he greatly inconvenienced his servants often, trusted them to attend to their business without his personal oversight.

Fox didn’t understand what storms had to do with housing, since sturdy hunting tents—small wooden shelters that were tents in name only—would do well enough in most downpours. But Domvoda must have, because he sighed heavily, then actually turned his head to look directly at the knight who had dared to mention reality. His tail twitched again.

The Dragonslayer stared back, waiting for whatever Domvoda might do or say with the calm expression of someone who had faced much greater dangers than one spoiled king.

Battling dragons was not as frequent now as it had once been, but it was not so unusual that only one knight should be known by the name of the Dragonslayer. What had earned Byr Conall Zainvilk Vulpets et suntene the title that no one else would dare claim was the incredible fact that he had slain a dragon alone, defeating the beast after it had killed the company of knights and soldiers with him and then captured Byr Conall.

Fox had not been anywhere near the capital then, but he knew the story as well as anyone except possibly Domvoda, who could have been given details that had not appeared in the songs. The story might have been why Byr Conall was permitted to wear a weapon around the king when no one else was, although the large knife sheathed and kept at his hip would do no good against a dragon, or so Fox imagined.

Permission to wear the weapon could also have been some sign of respect for Byr Conall’s family, although Fox did not know noble histories and couldn’t have said for sure. All knights were byr, but usually they were younger children with little to do or inherit, or from the less wealthy families. A few seemed to be the adventurous sort out to make their own names and fortunes, so enamored with danger they were happy to become knights and be sacrificed by the king when necessary.

Byr Conall might also have some other connection to Domvoda to allow him the honor. The two of them spoke familiarly at times and were near each other in age, neither with silver in their hair although that might appear any day.

Fox studied Domvoda’s tail, now motionless, before taking a breath and allowing his gaze to linger on the Dragonslayer.

Maybe Domvoda allowed Byr Conall to be armed in his presence because he was aware that the knife would not make much difference if Byr Conall ever decided to become a threat. The Dragonslayer was a mountain of a man, or perhaps more comparable to a massive tree. That size was nothing to a dragon, which could rip trees from the ground, but was still impressive. Byr Conall was broad, even with one slightly sloped shoulder, and as tall as his king. He had at least a decade on Fox, which meant he was considered aged by knightly standards—that was, when it came to competing in tournaments, not for other knightly duties. If something attacked again, knights of all ages would respond, or were supposed to.

Fox looked from the dark sheath of the knife to the long, plain surcoat normally worn over armor but probably worn now to conceal the Dragonslayer’s equally plain doublet. He glanced to the uneven shoulders, a consequence of being partially crushed by a dragon and the bones not healing as they should have; an injury that would have ended the career of any other knight and yet somehow hadn’t ended his. His hair was short. Many a knight cut their hair before the summer tournaments began, something to do with helmets, and the heat, and offering no handholds in battle. Byr Conall had combed his trimmed hair neatly and swept it back from his face.

Byr Conall had no adornments. No adornments meant he was not receptive, or perhaps that he was private about it, or perhaps that he simply could not afford any adornments or didn’t like them. Byr Conall did not follow fashion much except to wear the current trend of breeches and hose, although when outside of court, he tended toward long and not short breeches. His surcoats had once been less plain, Fox was nearly sure of it, despite how he could not fully recall what had decorated them since he had last seen them years ago when he had first played for the king’s court. There was a clue in Byr Conall’s armor, which had figures etched onto it that probably matched whatever had once been on his surcoats. But Fox made it a point to not study anyone at court for too long and found it difficult to watch tournaments. He did not care for the byr, it was true, but tournaments were bruising, bloody things and he had no stomach for them, something that amused most of those in these rooms, including the king.

At the thought, Fox returned his gaze to Domvoda, who regarded his famous knight in what felt like endless silence, although it probably did not last more than a second or two.

“There is not a cloud in the sky,” Domvoda observed at last.

Byr Conall inclined his head as if to acknowledge the point but didn’t actually agree. He didn’t frown or curve his remarkable lips into a smile. Not even his unusual short, neat beard could conceal that plush mouth. They liked such beards in the west, though the ability to grow one became much less common as one approached the capital. They had strange eye colors out west as well, although Byr Conall’s were the same brown-with-yellow as most in this room. His ears and tail were tipped with a burnished sort of dark gold, almost unnoticeable with his skin the same color. That was unusual in the province where Fox had grown up and around the capital unless one spoke of the king’s family, but the Dragonslayer was far from the only byr with a faint metallic sheen to his skin.

If dragons had thoughts like people did, then perhaps the dragon had taken Byr Conall because it had seen his strange beauty and wanted it.

Fox glanced away, looking to the crowd now waiting to see what Domvoda would do. He didn’t dare look back to Byr Conall.

Fox had no proof that the Dragonslayer had spoken up to pull the room’s attention from him. Byr Conall certainly had no reason to. But neither had he reason to speak up as he had, in that moment, when Domvoda would have been more agreeable with words said in private.

Pity might make Byr Conall intervene. Or it was the habit of a hero to rescue small creatures, even ones that bit. Whatever the possible reason, it had not been an accident. Byr Conall was the one person in these rooms aside from Domvoda who might notice that the Fox needed a rescue and had the power to offer one.

Pity then, Fox decided, and swallowed the bitter taste in his mouth.

“Surely there are more important matters for a hero to attend to than available beds,” Fox remarked languidly, although clear enough to be heard at the far corners of the receiving rooms. He kept his gaze on his lute as he continued to play.

He did not look over to see if Byr Conall inclined his head once again. His silence said enough.

“Consorting with the staff, Conall?” Domvoda drawled, delighted with the idea and very probably also the subject change.

The laughter that went through the room was high and nervous but nonetheless audible. That was how they treated their Dragonslayer, the hero who had fought to save them before and since that incident. They wanted to please the king or were wary of attracting Fox’s attention, but none of that forced them to laugh.

Fox was expected to pull and prod and tease. The noble byr had no such excuse. Anyway, a great many of them were no doubt fucking their servants or being fucked by them so they had no business laughing at such a joke.

Fox realized his mouth was open as if he intended to say that out loud—drawing the ire of every byr in the court for the sake of one knight who pitied him—and was saved by Domvoda, who likely did not realize he was doing it.

Domvoda rose to his feet in one smooth motion, flicking his tail to the side before leaving it to fall nearly to the floor.

“I am certain my byr will be generous if it comes to bad weather,” he declared, just shy of making it an order. Fox exhaled with relief. Domvoda studied the people studying him, his tail indicating exactly nothing. “The tournament this year has brought more knights than usual.” The unprecedented size of the prize purses this year had brought more knights than usual. “We will have quite a summer, with new acts of courage and daring.”

The byr took that as a cue and began to talk amongst themselves again, their conversation returning to the tournament and the feasts and parties that would follow, ignoring the unpleasant reality of too few resources even for those of their rank.

Fox let his fingers choose the song and was only slightly surprised when he realized he played The Song of the Dragonslayer with that same Dragonslayer in attendance.

He turned his head as he raised his eyes and startled as he fell into a gaze like the brown and yellow of early autumn. His hands knew their work but his lungs seemed to forget theirs as he stared, and parted his lips, and could not blink.

Then the gaze was gone, turned elsewhere, and Fox slid a look to the king and startled again.

Domvoda arched an eyebrow.

Asking about the choice of song, Fox realized with his heart pounding, and forced a smile before changing the tune to something else.