“My fiancée, your Majesty,” Skarnu answered. “Merkela of Pavilosta.”

“Your Majesty,” Merkela whispered. Her curtsy was awkward, but it served.

“A pleasure to meet you, milady,” the king said, and raised her hand to his lips. “I’ve seen Skarnu’s sister at enough of these functions, but she was always with that Colonel Lurcanio. Some things can’t be helped. Still, this is better.”

“Thank you, your Majesty,” Merkela said. She had her spirit back now, and looked around the Grand Hall as if to challenge anyone to say she didn’t belong there. No one did, of course, but anyone who tried would have been sorry.

Skarnu glanced back at Gainibu as he led Merkela away. Gainibu, plainly, had not had an easy time during the Algarvian occupation. Even so, he still remembered how to act like a king.

The dragon farm lay just outside a Yaninan village called Psinthos. Sleet blew into Count Sabrino’s face as he trudged toward the farmhouse where he’d rest till it was time to take his wing into the air and throw the dragonfliers at the Unkerlanters yet again. Mostly, the mud squelched under his boots, but it also had a gritty crunch that hadn’t been there a couple of days before.

It’s starting to freeze up and get hard, Sabrino thought. That’s not so good. It means better footing for behemoths, and that means King Swemmel’s soldiers will come nosing forward again. Things have been pretty quiet down here the last couple of days. Nothing wrong with that. I like quiet.

He opened the door to the farmhouse, then slammed it and barred it to keep the wind from ripping it out of his hands. Then he built up the fire, feeding it wood one of the dragon-handlers had cut. The wood was damp, and smoked when it burned. Sabrino didn’t much care. Maybe it’ll smother me, went through his mind. Who would care if it did? My wife might, a little. My mistress? He snorted. His mistress had left him for a younger man, only to discover the other fellow wasn’t so inclined to support her in the luxury to which she’d been accustomed.