Even without these cues, Cazaril could have identified the man as the castle warder by the clink of keys at his silver-studded belt, and the chain of office around his neck. He rose at once as the man approached him, and essayed a cursedly awkward bow, pulled short by his adhesions. "Ser dy Ferrej? My name is Lupe dy Cazaril. I beg an audience of the Dowager Provincara, if... if it is her pleasure." His voice faltered under the warder's frown.

"I do not know you, sir," said the warder.

"By the gods' grace, the Provincara may remember me. I was once a page, here"—he gestured around rather blindly—"in this household. When the old provincar was alive." The closest thing to a home he had left, he supposed. Cazaril was unutterably weary of being a stranger everywhere.

The gray brows rose. "I will inquire if the Provincara will see you."

"That's all I ask." All he dared ask. He sank back to his bench, and wound his fingers together, as the warder stumped back into the main keep.

After several miserable minutes of suspense, stared at sidelong by passing servants, Cazaril looked up at the warder's return. Dy Ferrej eyed him with bemusement.

"Her Grace the Provincara grants you an interview. Follow me."

His body had stiffened, sitting in the gathering chill; Cazaril stumbled a little, and cursed his stumble, as he followed the warder indoors. He scarcely needed a guide. The plan of the place came back to him, tumbling through his memory with every turning. Through this hall, across those blue-and-yellow-patterned tiles, up this stair and that one, through a whitewashed inner chamber, and then the room on the western wall she'd always favored for sitting in this time of day, with the best light for her seamstresses, or for reading. He had to duck his head a little through its low door, as he'd never had to before; it seemed the only change. But not a change in the door.