"Walk with me, Diarmán," said Han Taín.

Under the table, Uachi's fingers tightened around Diarmán's. Meeting his eye, Diarmán slipped his hand free. Uachi's mouth tightened. It was not quite a frown, but was an expression of clear disapproval.

"I shall return presently," said Diarmán, turning on the bench and swinging a leg over.

"Very well." Uachi's tone was as calm as still water, and as cool. "It is unlikely I'll wait for you here."

"I'll find you, then." Diarmán flashed a smile at his lover as he stood. He would not grow prickly at the man's flat mood, whatever might be the cause. Good fortune had blessed his family, and he could only enjoy it; Uachi would warm again soon enough.

Han Taín was silent as they exited the small dining room. He gestured for Diarmán to precede him, and the younger man led the way toward the castle courtyard. "Shall we take a turn?"

"Fine."

The day was drizzly, the sourest since Diarmán's return to his family's castle. He peered up at a sky as gray as long-worn linens. It would certainly rain in earnest by midday.

"This place has seen better times."

Diarmán glanced at his father and then followed his gaze, looking up at the high walls and the tower they could see from the courtyard. As he stepped back, his foot caught on a broken stone, and he stumbled with a muted curse. "That's the truth."

"It will see better times still in days to come."

Smiling, Diarmán folded his arms. "Leán and Declaen have been doing some repairs."

Han Taín clucked his tongue. He turned away from the scene and began to walk again, headed without urgency toward the way that would lead them to the stables and thence to the meadow bordering Eldran's Wood. "Mayhaps they'll find less need of sweat and strain now that I have come."

He was full of questions, but Diarmán waited, hoping his father would explain. He was keenly conscious of how much time lay between this moment and the past. Last he had seen his father, he'd been a boy just thirteen summers old. Now, he was a man, but he felt every bit a child, and he did not want to seem overeager, overcurious, overkeen.

But Han Taín did not speak of the castle. Instead, he said, "Your grandfather was a simple man."

"What do you—?"

"Simple in mind, simple in vision. Think what a man could do with a little ambition in this world."

They passed out of the courtyard, choosing their way along the dirt trail to the stable. Last Diarmán had seen the building, when he and Uachi had returned to the castle, it had seemed on the brink of collapse. Now, a part of the roof and the highest piece of one wall shone with bright, new wood. Leán and Declaen had completed their work. In a paddock not far from the place, their family's remaining horses were grazing alongside the dozens that had carried funeral guests to the castle. Thank the gods it was summertime and there was fodder afield, or they could not have hoped to keep them fed.

"Ambition," he echoed.

"Humans are weak, Diarmán. If there is one thing I know of them, it is that they are always in want of strong leadership. It is a lack we might easily fill."

Diarmán stopped, turning to look at his father. "That is my intent. Grandfather is dead. His seat falls to me, and I intend to be a better steward of this estate than he ever was."

Han Taín smiled, reaching out, his hand sliding over Diarmán's cheek. "Poor child. Have you then inherited your grandfather's lack of vision?"

It was an unsettling moment. Diarmán did not know how to feel. He was torn between churlish insult at Han Taín's condescension—child! he had not been a child for ten long years—and a swell of love that made his heart ache from the tenderness of the older man's touch. "I have vision," he said.

"Then look across this land, and tell me what you see." Dropping his hand, Han Taín turned away, indicating with a sweeping gesture of his elegant hand the meadow that lay before them, stretching on toward the gray border of the forest and, on the other side, toward the pastel haze of the horizon.

Diarmán stepped up to his father's side and stared out at the landscape. He saw his family's land. He saw, without seeing them, the cottages where the Eldran estate's tenants lived, working their plots and raising their children in increasing poverty. Beyond, he saw the estates of other lords and ladies, their tenants, their villages, free people, soldiers, cities: all of the brilliant, beautiful people and places in the country of Narr, a country that had never been kind to him and his brothers.

He saw the upstart who called herself High Queen, snug and conniving in her castle under yellow-and-black banners.

"Opportunity," he said, as his father's intimations came into focus.

Han Taín's smile was handsome. "Opportunity," he agreed.

"I don't understand. What could there be to interest you here, Father? You've a throne of your own in the Realm of the Faelán. Your court is there. Your people."

He waved his hand dismissively. "Yes, they are—but I found, being confined to my own world, that my desire to wander was more than a whim, my son. It was a hunger. Those of us who can walk between worlds are gifted, and 'twould be a pity not to use such gifts as we have. Have you never wanted more out of your little life?"

Diarmán's heart shrank away from the thought.

Had he wanted more?

He'd wanted, yes. He had wanted many things. Safety. Money. Respect. He had craved security for his family in all of its shapes and guises. He had wanted stability, control over his own destiny.

Seeing the grand, beautiful castle of Queen Coratse, perhaps he had envied her wealth. Perhaps he had envied her power, too.

Seeing the brilliant palace of Matei and Mhera, he had certainly envied them. Their comforts, their pretty things, their gods-blasted humility.

But those were not things for Diarmán to crave. He was not a prince of this world; in this world, he was no more than an illegitimate lord, clinging with all of his might to a throne that threatened to crumble beneath him.

"You could have more," Han Taín said. "We could have so much more, my son. You were born to more. It is your birthright."

"This world is different, Father."

"Ah, yes, it is—but not in the way you think. It is different, because it is weaker. More fragile. You know that to be true. One angry word drives men to war. An ounce of flattery and you will win allies and friends. It would be a simple thing to build a new kind of kingdom, my son."

"Are you serious?"

Han Taín gave Diarmán a chiding look. "Come with me. You have so very much to learn."