Taliesin was so exhausted that he collapsed into the bed and fell into a deep sleep. He dreamt of the Void, and the long years of introspection that had forced him to deal with the loss of his family, his country, and his world. The familiarity of endlessly reconstructing spellforms soon replaced the bittersweet memories of a past forever gone, only to in turn become an endless magical tangle that he had to unweave. Only by reconstructing poorly made spells could he escape, but he could not make new spellforms faster than inefficient enchantments knotted themselves into a forest of corrupted and broken arcana. Just as he was about to be crushed by it, he snapped awake. The words of the elder Fate echoed in his head. He is unbound by prophecy.

  With a deep foreboding settled into his bones, Taliesin ran to the table in the unfamiliar room where a washbasin rested. With trembling hands he poured water from the pitcher, and with a simple motion stilled the water in the basin. Unbidden, images of death and destruction appeared in the makeshift scrying bowl. The world was unfamiliar to him, so he did not try to steer the vision. Instead, he let the divination run untamed. Cities burned through the north, monstrosities nested in crumbling ruins throughout the hellenistic nations of the Mediterranean. The stone cities of Kemet echoed silently as sand slowly covered their dead.

  This was the world yet to come.

  The vision faded. Taliesin took a shuddering breath, then dipped his hands into the water and splashed his face with it. He looked at his hands which still refused to stop shaking, before clenching them into fists. He did not know how he knew, but it was not imminent. It could be years or decades away. He still had time.

  A knock came to the door, and a soft voice sounded from outside. “Milord?”

  “Enter,” he said as he dried his face.

  Two young maids entered and bowed their heads. “Milord, we’ve been sent to assist you. A bath has been drawn, and fresh clothes provided by your man Viggo. Jarl Gunther invites you to break your fast with him when you are ready.”

  Taliesin pulled himself together, and let the slender girls lead him through the halls to a stone chamber. Once inside, the two worked in tandem to lather his face with soap and give him a proper shave. He stood when they were finished, happy to have two days of stubble removed. But then their assistance took an unexpected turn. One began to disrobe while the other tried to undo his belt. With a steady hand, he stopped the girl from unbuckling his tunic.

  “What is the meaning of this?”

  “Milord?” asked the maid, her voice filled with uncertainty. “We’re simply to aid you in bathing, and anything else you may require.”

  While he may be many things, Taliesin was no mindless hedonist. The two young girls were scarcely old enough to work unsupervised, much less be willing bedding partners. They’d been put up to this. He was not so mercenary as to take such girls simply because they’d been commanded to entertain him. With an annoyed sigh, he gestured to the door. The two maids fled with obvious relief.

  Once he was alone and the door secured, Taliesin stripped off his dirty clothes before testing the water in the wooden tub. It was tepid but clean. Ah, damn, I forgot the spell for heating bathwater. Resigned to taking a mildly uncomfortable bath, he scrubbed himself as swiftly as he could. A short while later, clean and properly dressed once more, Taliesin made his way out to the central hall.

  The two wings of the manor were large, with an equally large receiving hall joining the two sides in the center. Behind the receiving hall was a proper feasting hall. Like most halls of the northmen, tables formed a massive horseshoe shape, open to the door. The head table was at the top farthest from the entryway, while massive hearths dominated the center between the tables, while still leaving room for entertainment or for receiving visitors. Most of the tables had an assortment of benches and wooden chairs, all of them covered in thick furs. The head table had a throne-like chair in the middle, with several padded chairs to each side for important personages and any the Jarl felt like honoring.

  Gunther sat at Jarl’s place at the center of the head table, with Solveig to his right and Brant standing in front of the table. Katla was seated next to Solveig, while the seat to Gunther’s left sat empty. A scattering of the old Jarl’s varingjar were seated at the tables nearby, while others stood guard at the door to the receiving hall and another at the passage to the kitchens.

  “Archmage Taliesin! I’m glad to see you are refreshed. Would you care to join me for breakfast? Brant was about to share his accounting of the last few days.”

  Still feeling a bit shaken from his vision and the awkward encounter with the maids, Taliesin muttered an agreement, but ignored the offered chair to Gunther’s left. Instead, he took a seat at the closest table on a bench, which made Gunther frown and share a look with Brant.

  Runolf and Viggo entered soon after and sat to either side of Taliesin. Brant motioned for a serving thrall, who came over with platters filled with braised meat, bread and cheese. Then he cleared his throat and began his report.

  “Jarl Gunther, I’m pleased to report that we are prepared for the funeral bonfire this afternoon. Your grandfather’s body has been washed and prepared, and proper sacrifices to Hel have been made.”

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  Gunther looked to his mother uncertainly, but she merely nodded in acceptance. She looked tired, but resolved. “Very well, Brant. We’ll have the ceremony this afternoon. Now tell me what happened since my grandfather… well… since he passed.”

  “I noticed your grandfather was acting sluggish the day after you left to visit the eastern villages. He had a few meetings but retired early. That evening, the servants came to tell me that the Jarl was not responding when they asked if he wanted his usual flagon of wine before bed. I entered and found that he’d passed away in his sleep. I immediately called the militia to send a courier, who I sent after you.”

  “We received no word, courier or otherwise,” said Solveig.

  “Suspicious as hell is what it is,” muttered Katla.

  Taliesin interjected with a question of his own. “The sheriff controls the militia?”

  “The Jarl controls the militia,” corrected Gunther. “The sheriff is charged with enforcing the Jarl’s commands, and thus often uses the militia for those purposes. Hallfred is only allowed a personal retinue of five men, who must also aid the sheriff for collecting annual land rents and tax collection.”

  “The Jarl has often given the sheriff a free hand with the militia,” offered Brant. “A much freer hand these last few years as he got older. I suspect his influence within the ranks is far greater than you may realize, milord. Further, he sent a courier demanding we turn over the manor to him as the new Jarl a scant two days after Jarl Arni died. He claimed to have a writ from the King, much as he did last night.”

  Taliesin looked up from the slice of bread he’d been slathering with soft cheese. “That is suspicious timing, indeed. When would a courier have potentially reached you?”

  “No later than two days ago,” replied Gunther, his eyes narrowing. “Are you saying he stopped the courier from reaching us while he made his bid for power?”

  “No, I’m suggesting the courier went exactly where the sheriff instructed them to go.”

  “He wouldn’t!” protested Solveig. Then she paused, and spoke quieter. “No, he probably would. That backstabbing traitor!”

  “Mother? I don’t understand.”

  Brant spoke up instead. “Milord, Archmage Taliesin is suggesting the sheriff paid the bandits to attack you, and used the courier to communicate with them. But he miscalculated, or was just too impatient. He didn’t anticipate you would survive, and rushed to claim the Jarldom and the holding before he received confirmation.”

  “So why press his claim after we arrived?” mused Taliesin. “He must still believe he can prevail. Tell me, are your grandfather’s varingjar now sworn to you? Do you have enough men to contest the militia in a straight fight?”

  “I trust my grandfather’s varingjar with my life. They’ve faithfully defended us for my entire life, and are blooded and true members of House Hofstad. I’ve no doubt they will renew their fealty after my grandfather’s funeral. As to how they would compare to the militia? That is difficult to answer.”

  “I could shed some light, if I may,” said Brant. “The militia are trained to man the gates and defend the walls. Many only serve part of the week, while most of their time is devoted to their own professions. Our varingjar, however, train daily for war, and are the best our holding has to offer. They and their families live on the manor grounds, and help make our House what it is. Their skill cannot be matched by militia at even two to one. Additionally, Arbiter Katla serves our House, and is at her second Forging, and Jarl Gunther is a healer at the second Forging as well. We have also attracted many men with their first Forging as well, with superior pay and benefits to what the militia offers. When looked at in total, that is not a small amount of power.”

  “We would crush the militia in a direct fight,” said Katla, clenching her fist to emphasize her point, which made the emberling’s horns sway. “The manor house is well fortified, and we have an armory and plenty of provisions.”

  “The real fear is that the fight may not be as lopsided as one might anticipate,” said Brant cautiously.

  Gunther nodded. “Obviously, the Sheriff believes otherwise. Which brings me to a topic I wished to broach with you, Taliesin. Let’s discuss what it would take to bring you under my banner.”

  Taliesin mentally nodded, for this conversation was inevitable. Their alliance had been a haphazard sort brought about by mutual need for survival. Now they were back in Gunther’s seat of power. He saw Viggo frown next to him.

  “Jarl Gunther,” said Taliesin formally, for this was not a friendly chat in a carriage on the road between towns. “While your hospitality has been unmatched, I’m unwilling to consign myself to the rule of another. I am willing to discuss extending and perhaps formalizing an alliance between us. Considering the situation with your rogue Sheriff, this would be most beneficial to you.”

  “Hmm,” said Gunther with a slight frown. “Are you not overvaluing the service you offer? You are bereft of enchantments, penniless, with a horde of refugees that need shelter and food. I daresay I can offer far more generous terms than you can expect from another Jarl, and can promise your refugees are seen to and your needs met. You would be free to do… whatever it is Archmages do with their time.”

  “Milord Jarl, please excuse my presumption,” spoke Viggo before Taliesin could respond. “Perhaps you did not get a good perspective of the Stormlord’s actions in Landsman Varo’s village. Ill-prepared, bereft of enchantments, as you say, he single-handedly turned the battle from a slaughter into a rout. Then he organized and safeguarded the very caravan that escorted you here, and successfully defended it against a second enemy warband. I’d say he’s more than proven his value.”

  “That does not yet preclude the issues of monetary need or the refugees from said caravan,” countered Brant on behalf of Gunther.

  This used to be me negotiating on behalf of Duke Arthur. Taliesin shared an amused look with Gunther, and by silent agreement allowed their stewards to dicker and deal on their behalf. After a significant debate and a fair amount of figurative and literal horse trading, an agreement was hashed out. The essence of the deal was that Taliesin would ally with the new Jarl at least through the Sheriff’s rebellion, and render magical aid in the defense of the town. The Jarl would feed and shelter Taliesin and his varingjar, as well as the refugees in payment.

  When the debate got down to arguing over a handful of marks, Taliesin stood. “I’m satisfied with the deal as it stands. Jarl?”

  Gunther stood as well. “Agreed.”

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